Sinner's Hymn
by PureWaterLily
Summary: Through an unexpected twist of events, Danzou gained position as Hokage four years after the Uchiha massacre. Sasuke ceased to exist, and in a desperate attempt to find his brother, Itachi allowed himself to be captured by Konoha. SasuIta.
1. Prologue

**Summary: **Through an unexpected twist of events, Danzou gained position as Hokage four years after the Uchiha massacre. Sasuke ceased to exist, and in a desperate attempt to find his brother, Itachi allowed himself to be captured by Konoha.

**Pairings: **Countless implications. SasuIta - onesided.

**Warnings: **Pretty dark. (I try.) Unedited (subjected to embarrassing mistakes). Torture. OoCness. Yaoi. Hmm... Oh, and I'll kill myself later for this: M-Preg.

**Additional A/N: **Flowery language in here. As in, a lot of nonsensical metaphors and… stuff. Whatever. Enjoy? :D

* * *

Prologue

On the day of the Uchiha massacre, the moon kissed the night sky. It became the sole witness to watch a young boy dance with Fate and terminate the long history of an ancient clan. The pages flipped and fluttered with the wind, each and every page drenched in screams, as limbs fell onto asphalt, curses gurgled from parted lips, and eyes turned to glass. In one night, a boy spilled the treasured family blood, and forever would it be buried, eroded with time until it vanished altogether.

But as the moon beamed playfully down into the cold and unlit mansion, it also saw that was not at all true. The survivors of such a tragedy were two brothers. They lived, and as long as they lived, one final page would refuse turn. Stained with inscriptions from the demons of hell itself, it would tell the tale of the final chapter. One marked with torture and agony, of condemnation and atonement, of pure tragedy sprouted from the purest of love.

This is the origin of the devil's child.

* * *

How did such a tale begin?

Perhaps it began over hundreds of years ago, when one domino began to knock down the next until appeared an avalanche of catastrophic events. Or perhaps it would be easier to pinpoint the pinnacle of the troubles in more recent times. Unrest within a proud line of warriors. A vengeful and damned soul. A sacrificial lamb. And a new soul born in a state of bliss and ignorance… if only for a few years.

It was Fate's will for Itachi to carry out bloodshed. His duty. From the moment he was born into the world, his destiny was carved in stone, with all struggles for freedom denied. Fate commanded him to fight, and he did; Fate commanded to hurt, and he did; Fate commanded him to murder, and he did without given the slightest moment to hesitate or resist. It caused his heart to bleed within him, feeding off his soul like a parasite. And with each year, he realized he was pulled into more and more chains until his hopes and wishes mutated into nothing more than pitiful, unattainable dreams, dreams that would slowly clawed at his sanity, before morphing into a deep abyss of inescapable nightmares.

At thirteen, Itachi surrendered. Not to _death_, which became a blessing, but to the cold and unforgiving _life_. He accepted his life of bondage, and like a puppet, performed what was exactly expected of him. He buried his emotion along with the rest of his soul and became a _shinobi_.

However, in return, the military village of Konoha was saved. He gave up his own future for the sake of his home, and the ignorant citizens were saved from war, saved from death, saved from destruction. Peace and balance were temporarily restored. He became the shield to defend off unseen forces.

_Temporarily_.

Itachi made the sacrifice knowing the village was near its doom. Konoha was an ill tree, and its roots were decaying. It was not salvable, he _knew_, and he only delayed the fall by bearing some of its burden upon himself.

But never in a million year did he thought he'd _live _to see that day when Konoha, his beloved village, crumbled and burned into ashes.

* * *

Four years after the massacre, an interesting twist of events occurred, one even not foretold by the cosmos. The protector of the military village, Sarutobi, the third great Hokage, was murdered, but not by the hands of the one he anticipated. Oh no, Orochimaru's plan came one year short; his invasion with the Sound and Sand was never carried. The one who took the life of the Hokage was a hidden figure.

Danzou. Just a wounded senile man with a limp. An old man who failed in politics and ended up in charge of a platoon of unknown soldiers called Root. Defeated, ignored, and forgotten by nearly everyone.

His attack was unexpected, and Sarutobi's honest trust became his downfall. Open and not plagued by paranoia, the Hokage was exposed countless times, and with one untraceable poison and one skilled Root member to crawl into his bedroom in the dead of night, the Hokage died peacefully. Since the man was approaching his final years, the trick fooled everyone, and no one suspected otherwise.

Or better to say it pulled one over the council. Of course, trustees of the Hokage were skeptical, but little power did they hold. Forced to keep their opinions to themselves, they could only pray for luck with each passing day of the debate for the new Hokage position.

Homura Mitokado and Koharu Utatane were no fools. They followed Danzou's words, but when it came to electing a new leader, both knew his radical plans were irrational. They wished for someone more reliable to win the favor of the villagers and held the ANBU's ties of loyalty. They decided upon Jiraiya, the pupil of the third Hokage himself. The toad Sanin had the same traits of his sensei and was a powerful ninja who loved Konoha. Konoha loved him back. He was perfect.

Unfortunately, he was nowhere to be found. Messengers scattered all over the Fire country, desperately searching for him to return. When he did not respond, who would possibly suspect that the messengers were all secret members of Root? And that they went to not deliver a message but to kill him?

Thirty elite ANBU shinobi were sent. Two returned, mortally wounded. The sanin put up a fight, but he went down just like the Hokage. Except this time, by brute force and numbers. Danzou refused to give up his title; he waited countless decades for this, countless years of scheming to annihilate every obstacle in his path.

Cornered, the council unwillingly permitted Danzou to become Hokage. However, they were unconvinced, already plotting to send another message to their final option, Tsunade, and with messengers close with the decreased Third this time.

But it was too little, too late. The minute Danzou came to the throne, Konoha was thrust into irreversible chaos. His underground army suddenly flooded into the village. He used trickery to make war with the other nations, fear to control the village with an iron fist, and his arsenal of emotionless yet deadly army to secretly kill whoever opposed him. Including the elders, who were once friends, once comrades. But once they stood in the way of his ideal… his, his _utopia_, they had to be removed.

People were terrorized, unable to tell friends from foes, beloved ones from spies, so by the time Tsunade arrived, the citizens created an uproar to put her in power. Danzou gladly complied, giving her his title.

But he had won the war. The Fifth became nothing more than a shadow. She held no power, only forced to sign document after document of _his _commands. She was the head figure, a kind and powerful woman that was taught under their former Hokage, the one the citizens believed in, but that was all she was: a figure. She became the scapegoat to take the blame when something went wrong, while Danzou's army took all the glory when something went right. The old commander sneered at her futile attempts for power. _You may be queen, Hokage, but I am still the dictator. _

* * *

Under Danzou's autocratic rule, everyone was controlled by his hands and his hands alone, and it was not long before Konoha fell into the horror known as the Fourth Great Shinobi War.

Besides Konoha bleeding from outside wounds, dramatic changes occurred within the system inside as well. Industrialization took a leap into the future, and coal mines and machinery were sought and developed. Science advanced once the countries began studying biological warfare, and conventional beliefs of harmony and nature were tossed in favor of drugs and chemistry.

Poverty struck, order was mingled, power was derived from money, and bribery ensured safety. After all, who was to protect Konoha citizens? _Certainly not _the long-eradicated Uchiha Military Police Force.

Thus, society tore itself in two – the luxurious and debased, the gluttonous and starving, the masters and the slaves. With such depravity in the village, the people abandoned their gods and goddesses, their protectorates and spirits, and turned to a new religion, one that offered them either eternal salvation or eternal suffering.

Another drastic change was the academic system. Children were sent to the Ninja Academy. Period. The building once filled with carefree play and learning was shifted into a place of discipline. Strict regulations kept every child under control and constant surveillance. Emotions were banned, smiles interchangeable with punishment, joy an ideal no one would dare think of. The teachers were replaced by appointed officers hardened by war and interrogation. Iruka, one of the most loved teachers of the school, was sentenced to life in prison after defending the rights of the school. Danzou tolerated no treason. None.

Naruto never graduated, like he should have in precisely one year. He was captured and sent to be personally trained, _tortured_, by Danzou's men. Danzou needed the kyuubi's power, and he broke its jinchuuriki to get it. The cheerful blond from then on died. His dreams vanished. _Hokage _became his nightmare, not his goal. But he did gain power, did become stronger, and his will was something that never tarnished. With strength and determination alone, he survived, all the while cursing at, of course, Danzou.

And Sakura? Kunoichis ceased to exist. They were all healers, not allowed to rank above those of a genin - chuunin if exceptional. Women became powerless, and thus, the system was reversed back in old feudal times. All the revolutionary changes, all the hard work and struggles for equality, practically disappeared overnight with the stoke of a pen. The ironic thing? Tsunade was the one who was forced to sign it. Her, the first female Hokage, the role model of all kunoichi alike.

Sakura, without ever knowing Naruto, was empty. Without ever knowing Sasuke, her life was meaningless. Although Tsunade personally took Sakura under her wing after seeing her abilities in chakra control, the girl simply gave up. She became another lifeless doll, discarding emotions in favor of perfection. She went into the Academy in search for childish love. When she left, she became the dead object she unknowingly signed up for.

Finally, Sasuke was the genius that ceased to exist. What happened to him, no one knew. Right before graduation day, two Root members took him away. None of the children knew why. And all feared to ask, or mention, or talk, or think, or _blink _at all. Very soon, his name was all but a blank in everyone's memory. Sarutobi was dead, and his protection of Sasuke was gone, just like his protection of Naruto was gone. And like Naruto, Sasuke had no family who cared for him. Of course he'd be forgotten.

Or was he?

* * *

Perhaps the most surprising out of all of this was what became of the infamous Akatsuki, the evil organization that was deemed the saviors. Everyone knew of the god-like ninjas who appeared and aided the people, ninjas that saved the victims of starvation, the bandits and robbers who took advantage of the chaos, and protected them, because Akatsuki did not follow the State. They were open for hire indiscriminately, were on the outside, and were _trusted_. They were criminals that were _free _of the government when everything else wasn't.

For the common everyday citizens, the ones who heard of the gossip, these whispers of hope spread like wildfire. Hunter ninjas knew otherwise, but they were preoccupied with other issues. Akatsuki was the last thing on their minds.

Meanwhile, the leader, Pein, watched the countries killed themselves. Mutual pain between people. Everyone was suffering. Yet, something was off. So he took a different route of action. He let his organization's reputation rise and continued to be worshiped by the people. Then, when all was weak, they would be under his power.

Furthermore, the shadowed manipulator of it all, Madara, laughed at the pitiful world. His new course of action had to be modified from the old one; yet, he was not as ambitious, not with all the time in the world at his fingertips. No, he simply enjoyed the show.

The members themselves? They took the role of mercenaries while waiting for the right time to strike. While they waited, they were granted to do whatever they pleased, as long as it did not tarnish the organization's image, including joining forces with the underground Resistance to gain the favor of the people.

* * *

So how did all this tie in together?

How did everything fit?

Well, someone did care for Sasuke, the boy who ceased to exist. Someone who watched the burning Konoha in horror. Someone who searched and searched for one single ounce of gossip that his little brother was alive. Itachi.

For six agonizing years, the six years after his brother's disappearance, he hoped, prayed, wished, that Sasuke was still alive and well. Or dead and peaceful.

He prolonged his life, only because there was a slight, _slight _chance Sasuke was alive as well, and that was enough for him to face the endless painful battle against death.

He suffered from a disease, yet ignored its misery and kept living, kept living to see his little brother again, the one he vowed to keep safe. A promise he had yet again broke. A promise he still attempted to keep, despite losing him. He couldn't turn his back on Sasuke and leave him… he couldn't.

Itachi was predicted to have died at the age of sixteen. He struggled to live until the age of twenty-two, cheating the reaper itself. It was a miracle born from a pool of anguish and guilt.

_Is my little brother in heaven? Please God… let me see him again. Anything to see him again. Anything._

In the darkness of night, he submitted to a deity that abandoned him in life. A silent prayer to a god he did not believe in, yet he poured his soul into.

And his wish was granted. But far, far from the way he expected.

There was no God.

However, the Fates existed and thrived.

And these beings were quite... unpredictable.


	2. I

"Are you alright?" Kisame questioned his partner, attempting to keep his tone cold. He rarely showed sympathy, and for him to say thing else would have been out of his character.

No, Kisame did not care for anyone else's welfare, not even towards the one who worked with him for over seven years. It was merely a hindrance to wait at every post, and the growing frustration drove him to question. That was surely it, he convinced himself. However, curiosity was bickering with him internally, and he NEEDED to turn around and look back. The other man's slowness irked him to the fullest.

When he did, he was not pleased. His partner seemed too _weak_, not even able to keep up with the proper speed. Granted, they have traveled non-stop for days on in, but that was a sad excuse.

Behind him was a young man with unnaturally pale skin. His hair did not shine in health, but hanged dull and limp. Then there were the dark rings carved deeply below his eyes after years of deprived sleep and creases etched his face from a haunted childhood of nightmares and worries.

He looked dead. He looked like a ghost.

Yes, that would be how Kisame would describe his partner. A ghost drained of all color. People had a blush or a tint of pink pigment in their skin. But not Itachi. It was as if every ounce of his blood was washed away.

Yet somehow, he was still beautiful, even if he seemed dead. Beautiful, but _weak_.

And that, Kisame did not tolerate. He stopped completely now, even going so far as to unlatching his sword and burying it deep down into the dirt ground. The action said all he needed to convey his intention. They were stopping. Itachi just couldn't seem to keep up, and it had been a while since they had a decent rest.

And while the smaller of the two did not say anything, did not express anything, both knew he was silently grateful.

Kisame exhaled and sat on the ground, leaning casually against the bark of a monstrous Fire Country tree. "I know I've said this before… but sleep. You are no use to me except luggage if you can't even keep up," the shark demon said, smirking. It was a rare occasion to see himself stronger than Itachi. Of course, he'd get the beating of his life if he dueled Itachi now, but at least he would be able to get up and _stand_ up afterward. Therefore, it was only logical to gloat in the other's face while he could.

Deeply, he was somewhat concerned though. He couldn't help but notice how the life was steadily draining from his partner. If the slight paling and unsteady movements were not enough, the way Itachi's battle movements flowed disturbed him. What was once such a deadly dance had deteriorated to quick and blunt killing. His grace was there, but his style changed. Itachi loved to toy with his victims, and because if it, they had a tendency to flee from him. That was difference now. Itachi went for the kill and the kill alone, not having the energy to do anything otherwise.

But the most eerie thing was his sharingan. It took Kisame a while to notice, years in fact, but he saw the sharingan fading. It used to be a bright crimson. Then it became a dark bloody red. Then it became duller. And now… one year ago, it began to fade to a _purple_. Not a rich, wine tainted claret. Not the immortal amaranthine. But blend of a lifeless and dead erythraean, of only a shade darker than the skin of a corpse would decompose to.

Kisame found himself staring into those eyes, then quickly and subtly glanced the other way, suppressing a shudder. At this point, he shouldn't fear Itachi anymore. Itachi was slowly losing power, declining ever since he joined the organization. Yet, he couldn't help it.

Briefly, he wondered if he should kill the boy. If he didn't, Akatsuki would dispose of him at this rate. Talk had already spread among the inner circle of a replacement, but Kisame had waved it off as premature. That was still years away, and much as he hated to admit it, Itachi was still more powerful than him and still an important and valuable member.

"Why aren't you sleeping, kid?" Kisame asked. "You know we can't waste time, and I refuse to stop again until we reach our target."

He waited. No reply.

Itachi's eyelids relaxed, but they weren't closed. Instead, he kept them open, just staring at the ground, probably deep in some thought. A trouble was plaguing his mind.

"Why do you still call me that. I am no longer thirteen," Itachi muttered softly, deviating from the topic.

Hearing his voice added another frown to the shark demon's face. The words were spoken in a whisper. _Does he not even have the energy to talk?_ he thought bitterly. _Not that he usually does…_

Kisame masked his displeasure with a dark chuckle. "Heh, old habits die hard."

It was true Kisame was partnered up with him when Itachi was only thirteen. At the time, he didn't take him seriously, a choice he would regret for the rest of his life. It didn't take anything else to convince Kisame after Itachi mercilessly slaughtered his victims in such a cruelty that made Kisame's blood turn cold. Still, he couldn't let the boy's power dominate him. So he tuned the tension between them down a bit with lighter conversations, and "kid" became his constant reminder to Itachi that he was, well, still just a child.

And it hadn't changed really. Itachi was still too young, and his appearance hadn't changed much. He grew a little taller, his hair a little longer, and that was the entire change over a decade. By eighteen, it seemed as if the child was frozen in time, stunted in his growth, all while slowly decaying away. Maybe it was the sharingan. Maybe it was something else that preserved his appearance.

"I'm not young anymore," was the solemn reply.

"And what am I? If you think you've seen it all, you haven't. You still got many more years ahead of you, kid. Get over it."

Silence.

Eyelids dropped down a minuscule. Long eyelashes suddenly became very heavy and wished to fall and brush against the somber face. _Sleep._

They snapped open, and the three black comas began to swirl rapidly and lively in the dull pupils. Kisame sprang to his feet as well, the giant sword armed at his side.

Intruders.

They both sensed it. The chakra approaching them was dim, so dim that it was dangerous. Dimmed chakra meant suppressed chakra, and for someone, or some group, to do that so well only meant one thing.

ANBU.

"Shit. Should have known. I'm never letting you pick the routes again. They always land close with the damn State military," Kisame hissed, his beady eyes rotating to locate the approaching squad. The enemies were gaining in their direction, closer and closer; they were spotted. It only meant blood. ANBU were unreasoned with and chance of escape was small. It was to kill quickly or die.

Within a second, four figures landed in the small clearing. Each was geared in proper military uniforms, and pitch black masks secured their faces. Not the white masks with small details engraved and animal-like resemblances, but a smooth black mask with nothing. They functioned as no one and no thing. They were no individual.

The Mist demon cursed his luck. Not just ANBU. ANBU _Root_. If anyone believed the ANBU were to be feared, they had not met the personally trained Root members yet. These were just as powerful as real ANBU, except stripped to the core of humanity. They killed first, asked questions later, and unlike ANBU, who were still people and held morals, they had none. They didn't know right from wrong, only success and failure. Perfect minions of the State's leader, Danzou.

Both sides did not speak. No warnings were given. Just metal clashing metal at inhuman speeds. The two Akatsuki members divided, each engaged in combat with two others, outnumbered.

But the Akatsuki was a force to be reckoned with. The first victim fell, paralyzed and left to bleed to death with a kunai in his chest, driven in at a lightning speed and impossible precision.

The second one had his arm slashed off by a shredding sword. Yet, he still continued. Kisame then chopped off his head, which rolled next to the severed arm. It stalled Kisame for one minute, long enough for the other Root to aim for the traitor's neck. He missed by half an inch; his failure caused his death when the giant sword swung around and shredded his entire insides.

The fourth was finished after being caught in a genjutsu and stumbled to the floor, saliva dripping from inside the mask.

There was one more, one that waited and watched while the other four were so easily taken down. He stalked in the shadows, observing, his presence concealed so well that only with the penetrating sharingan was he discovered.

"Come out. I see you there," Itachi whispered, staring blankly into the silent forest.

The figure appeared, with a black mask as well. But his armor was slightly different, just slightly, with the coal insignia. A heavy black scarf hanged around his neck, blending in with the rest of his uniform. If remembering correctly from his own days at ANBU, Itachi guessed correctly what these subtle differences meant.

This was the captain.

The figure seemed unfazed, a judgment from his movements. He walked coolly and collectedly past the corpse of his teammates, almost sneering at them from behind his mask.

"Fools," the captain muttered. He wasn't supposed to talk, but then again, he cared less. No one was here to hear him. "They think they can match their powers with a sharingan user…"

With each barely audible word, Itachi grew number. _It can't be… that voice…_ He stared straight into the slits of the mask and saw red. Red and black, swirling uncontrollably.

"We finally meet, _nii-san_." Sasuke grinned, his voice echoing like a ghost, as he reappeared with a blade at Itachi's throat. "What a pleasant reunion…"

"S-Sasuke?"

* * *

Sasuke had not been entertained for a long time. Perhaps his only enjoyment in life was derived from the suffering of others, watching them begging for mercy, snapping their arms… stretching them further and further until pop! The limb falls out of its sockets, and a delicious scream of agony echoed in his mind.

But currently, he took much, MUCH more delight in the discovery of the two criminals in front of him. The Akatsuki. The so-called elitists who were condemned and outlawed, the saviors of the world.

The Root captain wanted to lick his lips in anticipation, not having an opportunity such as this in a while. When was his last challenge? Orochimaru perhaps. It was when he juggled that snake-nin's head with complete indifference that he earned his respect from his ANBU peers, and it was when he delivered the severed body parts to Konoha that he proved his loyalty to the village. But that was _such_ a long time ago.

So as he paraded though the forest on his return, unnoticed and concealed in the shadows, unknown presences _so close_ forced him to abandon delivering another dull mission in favor of some excitement.

Who would have guessed he stumbled upon the renowned Akatsuki? From his position in the ashen trees, he activated blazing red eyes to see two members with hands full of idiotic ANBU Roots. He would have thought he came too late until he realized who was winning.

They were talented, he thought, pondering if he should interfere or not. This was not his business, but the temptation was there. Then he altered his view to the one closer to him.

The man had a familiar face. Beautiful face.

Instantly, Sasuke knew he liked that face, wishing to mar it with scars. That face resembled his, a reason why he might find it tasteful, but it wasn't the same. He knew his own face was perfect, like every other part of him, while the person below was far from it. Too feminine. Too weak and worn. Too soft and delicate. His fingers itched, as his nails wanted to scratch that face and break that delicacy.

The familiarity continued vexed him, as if his brain was revolving around something but couldn't pinpoint the center of it. An opponent? No, he would be dead. An ally? Dead as well if he betrayed and joined the other forces. No one from Root managed to betray him. Perhaps with the exception of one, but that was a special case. Then how would it be possible that he was feeling such an empowering disturbance within him, crying that he had seen this person before? He was truly puzzled.

Until he saw the person's eyes. Sharingan.

Ah, so this must be Uchiha Itachi, his blood brother.

Interesting how he recalled nothing about him. But wasting time dwelling on memories were useless, as he much more preferred examining the Akatsuki's battle tactics closely. He found his _brother_ rather impressing, but nothing to be feared.

However, he was slightly taken by surprised when his presence was leaked. Nevertheless, he gracefully leap out of his place and landed on the ground with his new opponent. He sneered at the pitiful corpses of the ANBU. They put him to shame, they really did, as he avoided their messes on the floor as if they were rotten filth sticking to the bottom of his shoe.

"We finally meet, _nii-san_." His voice was stone cold, but even he couldn't hide the twisted delight underneath. It took all his willpower to prevent the kunai in his hand from slicing the moment it made contact with flesh. No, he wanted to delay this. He wanted to play with an Akatsuki. An actual challenge worthy of his skills.

The hidden grin behind his mask grew wider at the reaction the other gave. It seemed he had selected his words properly, watching how one little address froze the other.

"S-sasuke?"

The crack in his victim's voice almost made him laugh. Almost. His sharingan spun lively, excited for bloodshed. What to do… what to do. He pressed the blade at the Akatsuki member's neck closer, but didn't want to break skin yet. It was too easy.

He schemed for ways of a prolonged and torturous death when…

"Itachi!"

The ANBU captain growled at the interruption. He had forgotten he was not alone, and another pest was present while he was indulging in toying with his prey. Speaking of prey, why was he not reacting? How disappointing.

Oh well…

He swiftly removed the blade nestled in the other's throat and delivered a blinding kick that sent the body colliding into a tree. The dead trunks cracked and splintered at the contact, but he made sure the blow was not powerful enough to break the barrier.

Spontaneously, two clones pinned the man's wrists above his head securely to prevent any resistance. Then he let his clones apply just a bit more force, just to test the situation. His clones twisted and snapped the frail wrists, and a sickening crack of bone rang in his ears, eliciting another grin from the captain. He also waited for a scream, but none came.

With the man's hands bound and broken, the captain expected no further counterattacks - not that there was any to begin with. Yet, returning a kunai to the man's exposed neck never did hurt, as he tucked the metal edge neatly next to his prey's jugular.

_Is he even attempting to fight?_ he thought, slightly irritated. Where was that magnificent performance he witnessed? But his morbid fascination did not die as he examined the inflicted damage, quite proud.

"Move and he dies," the ANBU captain told the Mist traitor nonchalantly, already predicting a brawl with the other. But he was not nearly as interested, knowing brute force had little skill behind it.

"Kisame, leave…"

The weak whisper made him snap his head back to his trapped victim. _Leave_? His prisoner must had lost it if he believed he could escape his current situation by himself. Frowning, he reminded himself to correct that in the future. No one underestimates him.

"Like I'm about to run away from this brat," Kisame snarled, readying his Samehada. For one thing, he was stunned at the quick defeat of his partner, but he was far from forfeiting to one of Danzou's minions. No, he wanted to shred the disgusting mindless creature to pieces.

"Leave!" Itachi commanded. "He has the sharingan and four more ANBU-" His warning was silenced, and his voice was stifled by a blow.

The clones dispersed, and releasing the last grip suspending the prisoner in place, the captain watched him fall to the floor.

Against his better judgment, Kisame obeyed his partner's orders and retreated. Itachi still had seniority over him, defeated or not. However, the captain did not chase him, or even bother to move from his position. Instead, four ANBU suddenly arrived to tail him, gaining speed. He barely escaped their tracks, and if he lingered another millisecond, he would have been cornered. Two, he could handle. Four, that would have been a tough deal. A mysterious captain was another. But the inevitable stalling would have led to being gained up by more State troops, which left him no choice.

He needed to leave, and he needed to abandon his partner.

"You better know what you're doing, Itachi," Kisame muttered as he vanished into the trees, enshrouding his trail with a heavy mist to blind the trackers.

The captain remained stoic, watching his squad chase down the member. Four of them, and they still let one escape. Idiots, he thought, wondering why he didn't just kill them as well and get a replacement team. He preferred solo anyhow.

Then, he walked to his own captured prey and smirked. The fact his foot was at the same level as the Akatsuki's face only fueled his sense of superiority, but he wanted to look at the man straight in the eyes, so squatting down, he lifted the other's chin. Pale and delicate skin faced unblemished, dark porcelain. He couldn't tell what the fallen Akatsuki was thinking, but he knew the man had enough brains to know his current predicament.

"I hope your sacrifice was worth it, _Uchiha Itachi_," he taunted, his sharingan flashing, "because as of now, you have become a prisoner of the State."

Bright and bloody red pupils versed a dulling one.

And when he let his fingers drop, his brother's head dropped as well, eyes closed.


	3. II

Ibiki hated many things. Correction, he hated everything, and it would be the day when he discovered something he didn't.

He hated the daylight and the sun, always finding solace in the peacefulness of night. But now he hated the night too, when platoons of mindless robots swarmed like rodents to keep an eye on every inch of the city. Likewise, he hated the dark, where his bliss was stolen away by the screams in the dungeons.

His pleasure in those screams dulled as well, because he was not the one inflicting it. He simply watched, as Root interrogators attempted every trick in the book, clueless of any human emotion and morals. Instead, he would sit in his chair with arms folded, just to make sure nothing stupid was done. He did not pity the fools that landed themselves in the underground dungeons. No, he was too old to feel remorse and too experienced to give sympathy. The most he could offer is empathy and a sigh, rubbing his weary ears.

No matter how much physical pain the Root interrogators inflicted, there were some victims that simply would not talk. But the Root never learn, as they scanned down the pages in search for another torture method. The merciless tactics they did _always _broke the prisoner. But rarely did they break the person _right_, resulting in a lifeless corpse to be burned later. Wasteful.

Ibiki also hated the fact that he was demoted to a simple lackey, but then again, he didn't complain. He knew of his skills, and he was the best. He and he alone knew the human mind, and what it took to crack it _correctly_. But he refused to use that to assist Danzou in any way, shape, or form.

Oh, and the dictator was the thing on the top of his hate list. In fact, one of these days, he wouldn't mind setting all of those fools in the cellar free just to see Danzou fuming in his seat. Maybe he wouldn't hate that. Ibiki wouldn't hate the day when he have that old geezer in his hands, crushed and strangled like he had wanted to for so long.

When his former teammates died because they were sent into the damned War. When suddenly the empty tunnel of the interrogation chambers was flooded by innocent children, scared senseless for their lives. When he attended the funerals of the love ones that invaded into his life and became family – distant, but still family. When clad in a black trench coat, soaking in the heavy showers, he looked blankly at the wet graves. There were no tombstones. There were too many for those. All those times, he wanted to tear Danzou limb from limb.

Why? Because pain was his specialty. He did not heal, nor did he love, nor pity, nor sympathize. He only dealt pain to the opposite side, and that was his nature. So when the opposing side became the side he supported, his job became pointless.

Still, when ANBU Root failed, they always came crawling to him for assistance.

Ibiki trudged down the road in the blackness of the night after getting an urgent message from a certain frantic head interrogator. The deliverer of the letter had found a dagger beside his throat, and he would have stabbed the man just for waking him up at the most impossible hour. But he had dressed and left the ANBU alone, after snarling that there was no knock next time, the dagger was going through.

The leather cloak fluttered behind him as a breath of grey air blew his way. Disgusted, he took a handkerchief and slammed it against his face. The new Konoha was surely disgusting, and he took the shortest route possible, evading all the sleeping beggars and trash that littered the alleyways. Eventually, he reached the core of the city and disappeared behind a hidden corridor to a descent of stairs. Immediately, he discarded the makeshift mask and breathed in the rot and musk of the chambers as if they were fresh air.

Knowing the maze like the back of his hand, he easily made his way to the cell he was required at, trying to ignore the poorly concealed spies creeping behind him.

"What seems to be the problem?" he asked, as he entered the room of the head interrogator. He did not bother cloaking his irritating at being disturbed in his sleep.

"Here's the file," replied a flustered man from behind his mask. "We've tried everything and nothing is working!" The interrogator was obviously distressed, even banging his frustration into the stone walls. "I need you to break him so I can get the information out. My ass is on the line."

"When has it not been?" Ibiki replied, his joke carrying no humor, and he unenthusiastically scanned the folder.

"It's been days. Do something!"

He said nothing, enjoying the man's fret. The incompetence of the Root must had been so unreliable, Danzou decided to anchor him into the interrogation. Ibiki had always been suspected, and major cases were denied to him, so they must be quite desperate. He decided he liked that, playing with the file and wondering how to upset the dictator further.

His eyes fell to the name, and after a brief glance at the case, he raised an eyebrow. Then, he shut the file and stashed it in the inside of his coat.

"Lead me there," he said, pocketing his gloved hands.

They passed the endless damp corridors until the conditions were impossibly foul. The rotting corpses and caked blood were odors that could not be removed, especially in a place of no ventilation.

Ibiki removed one of the mounted torches and entered the block.

Chained and shackled was the infamous Uchiha Itachi.

So the file did not lie, Ibiki mused.

The Akatsuki robe was long shredded, forgotten and tossed onto the dirty floor. Cuts and gashes were slashed all across his body. Burns on expose arms and legs. Hair dangled like curtains to hide his face, but Ibiki caught the bruises, and the blood trailing down the chin… down the neck… down into the chest where more blood from more wounds joined, staining pale skin with color.

A Root was beside him, unshackling the chains. The moment the prisoner was unlocked, the body listlessly collapsed to the cold floor. Tragic, Ibiki thought, watching the Root pull the Uchiha up and slam him into the wall.

"Whipped, burned, branded, beaten, shocked. Hmm… you've outdone yourself," Ibiki told the interrogator, just as the ANBU stepped out of the cell and opened it for him to enter. "But… before I attempt anything, you mind telling me what else you've done to extract information? I'm not in the mood to be questioning a dead body all night."

The list went on and the punishments were never-ending. At each new attempt, Ibiki could tell the interrogator was becoming more and more desperate, almost clinging to the title that would be removed from him.

The tricky thing was that Danzou specifically requisitioned the Uchiha in the cell to be kept _alive_, and the Root ANBUs did not know what to do, stepping dangerously on the line that would permanently kill the prisoner.

They've injected drugs each time to heal the wounds fast and double checked to make sure he would be kept conscious throughout the entire ordeal. Then, they went down the next line in the book for another method to get him to talk.

Sleep deprivation and a truth pill usually would have been more than enough for most cases, driving victims to the brink of insanity until they could not stop talking. Then again, any Uchiha wouldn't fall into the category of a random case. The prisoner was mute, and the most they have gotten was a small gasp, which infuriated the impatient head interrogator.

Ibiki wondered how on earth the head interrogator even landed his position. The interrogator was impossibly inexperienced, and he had the shortest fuse. The mask he wore was excused as intimidation, but Ibiki knew it was because he was a coward. The head interrogator was scared to show his face to the prisoners, unlike Ibiki who didn't mind if people memorized his face. Ibiki didn't need to hide; he preferred it if the victims could stare straight at him and shudder in fear.

"Water torture?"

Ibiki would have rolled his eyes at the mere suggestion, but kept his professional appearance.

"If all you've stated previously did not work, what makes you think drowning him would be of any difference?"

"Then what?"

"Let me talk to him."

The interrogator nodded once, permitting entry, and the ANBU Root stepped aside to a corner.

Ibiki stepped into the cell and hanged the torch on the wall. The small flickering light added no warmth to the damp and freezing room.

"Alone," he added, helping himself to a battered, old wooden chair.

"You know I can't do that," the interrogator hissed.

Ibiki inclined his head, then grunted and stood up. The chair creaked from the sudden lift of weight. "Then I am wasting my time."

"Stay."

"If I do, it will be alone," he restated firmly.

"No."

"Either this will be done in private, or I am going back to bed. I am not obliged to continue this pointless ordeal."

"You have no choice," the head interrogator replied, infuriated. "You _will_ do this interrogation."

At this, Ibiki laughed. "Or what? You'll arrest me?"

The interrogator gave a miffed huff before pointing to the ANBU Root in the corner. "He stays no matter what."

Exasperated, Ibiki agreed to the compromise and reseated himself, listening to the other stomp back out the corridors.

With the interrogator gone, the chamber fell into a treading silence. The flames of the torch flickered on and off, casting a shadow in the room.

Ibiki stared at the damaged body in front of him, scanning each imperfection that marked the revealed skin. He began at the tangled legs that rested at an odd angle after being pulled up from his fallen position. Through the slices in the fabric, he then noted the sequence of events. Dragged, the rough floor grated his knees. First the bruises, because the whip marks slashed right though indiscriminately. Then the scorch marks, probably when the bleeding became too profuse. Then the sting marks.

His vision slowly inclined to the torso. The prisoner didn't defend himself. The arms dangled like dead weight, and the wrists were inflamed and swollen. Chains would not cause them to twist like that. Ibiki figured the damage was done beforehand, presumably when he was captured to prevent hand signs.

Then the neck. Thin rings. He was choked by wire. Idiots. Everyone knew twisted nylon rope would be just as effective, but not as likely to slice the head right off.

The face. Marred with color. Lips frozen blue. He'd been locked in for a while, since his body barely provided enough heat to survive.

Up to the eyes... Ibiki frowned. They've bandaged his eyes. How the hell did they expect any reaction if they covered the damn eyes.

"You there. Remove those," he gruffly commanded the Root in the corner. Maybe the little spy could be useful after all.

The person did not move.

"Do it! He can't stand up, let alone attempt any sharingan."

Hesitantly, the ANBU stepped closer and withdrew a dagger. He pressed the tip to the prisoner's cheek and with one swift motion, he sliced the cloth, and the bandages unraveled.

Eyelids slowly opened halfway, and Ibiki watched pupils dilate to adjust to the dim surroundings. They were unfocused, and it was only when he purposely shuffled his feet and scraped his boot to make a noise did they land on him.

Blind too.

Ibiki examined the prisoner some more before he concluded one thing.

He didn't need to inflict anything. Hell already had its wrath on this man.

* * *

"You know, I had my doubts. Not really surprised, but skeptic," he told no one in particular, lighting a cigarette. "I asked myself, how, just how, did an Akatsuki manage to land in this place. Six years we have been hunting them down, and six years they have slipped right through our fingers."

He exhaled a breath of smoke. The scent mixed with the decaying stench, drowning the senses of both.

It was too chilly, as if ghosts were wandering right through him, and that was him with a two layered leather jacket to shield any gusts. It was also too wet, with the dripping leakage of water, mold, and unresolved carcasses. Humans, or rats, he really couldn't tell the difference. But his boot provided a waterproof barrier, and the liquid of mildew and flesh would not touch him.

Meanwhile, he stared down at the exposed prisoner on the floor. Exposed because goose bumps meekly try to protect him from the cold; he would not shiver. Exposed because he was not in a chair and sat in an odd kneeling position among the rest of the filth.

"So. Uchiha Itachi, do I need to introduce myself? Or do you remember me?"

And oddly, no matter how tattered and degraded, the prisoner did not look as if he belonged.

No, Itachi did not belong in these chambers. Ibiki did. Ibiki rested on top of his throne of the same wooden chair he had sat in for countless years, witnessing countless punishments. It was a loud, dank, pernicious place, and the one before him did not fit in his kingdom. The scars and injuries that merged perfectly into Itachi's flesh belonged, but the person carrying them did not. It was intriguing, really, and Ibiki wondered why that was.

No reply, and he didn't expect one.

"Morino Ibiki," he said, looking for any type of reaction.

He caught something in the other's eyes and was pleased. "I see you do remember. A decade and every single moment captured in perfect detail. Quite a genius, and quite a memory you had there. Because of it, you came to my chambers often in your youth when I needed to withdraw information. Yes, I remember as well and knew before I even had to read anything.

"You see, I picked up some other information during those meetings as well." He removed his cigarette from his teeth and approached the younger, his boots stepping over the inky puddle and the battered cloak. With a grin, he stabbed the fiery tip into the left upper shoulder of the prisoner, right in the center of the swirl of black ink.

The other did not scream, did not even hiss. He closed his eyes and refused to acknowledge the burn, but his flesh would not and shone bright red and white, as the hot ashen end melted in.

"Better than any document can ever tell me about you."

Tossing the cigarette, he returned to the comfort of the hard wood chair, while the other remained on the floor. The man crossed one leg over the other and brought his fist to hold up his face, watching the Uchiha with interest.

"For example, I learned some interesting things that were not recorded. You became the State's dog at the age of thirteen. The branded tattoo still marks that.

"I knew you had a high pain tolerance, like that time you came into my office with a gashing wound, but waited until I accepted the Hokage's scroll. I made you stand there until I finished writing my document, and you didn't complain. You still have that same tolerance, because you don't seem to be cracking, which is the reason I am here.

"I knew you had a peaceful nature. You often selected missions with little bloodshed, if you were given a choice. And you didn't come to the ANBU celebration, didn't even eat because we served meat and sake. I remember noting you drank water, then left.

"I knew you were talented, and I was not at all shocked that you were _able_ to massacre your kinsmen. No, I was only slightly shocked you _did_ seeing you were the least likely candidate to do such a thing. It wasn't your decision, and I doubted it was your will either.

"So it was quite easy to connect the dots together now that the final piece went into play six years ago. How a thirteen year old boy who refused to eat meat could have done such a thing. Exterminated the entire police force when there was absolutely no motive. None... expect perhaps by the command - blackmail - of a higher order.

"Now, who, I thought, would want the Uchiha Police Force gone? Certainly not the boy, but maybe, just maybe the person who thought the police were threatening to certain plans... Heh, but of course, those are my suspicions, and I have little physical proof. You can be the psychotic murderer the papers claim."

Itachi lifted his head and stared at Ibiki with empty eyes. "Seems like you've figured out everything," he whispered darkly.

The ANBU in the corner stiffened. This man, after two mere minutes, was able to draw out more words than they could in two days. But the message was far from what was ordered. No, they were conversing something else.

The tension from the guard did not go unnoticed, but Ibiki ignored the little surveillance spy, knowing how to deal with that later. He had to deal with the captured Akatsuki first, even if it meant talking to himself a while longer. But he knew the other was listening. Itachi didn't show it, but he was listening.

It was saddening, actually. The Itachi of the past had so much potential, and that, coming from Ibiki, was an unimaginable praise. Despite his young age, the boy held the highest discipline, able to suppress his emotions to a frightening level. After one glance at the ten year old, Ibiki already knew the kid would pass his examination. Upon second glance, he considered the boy to be his successor to the ANBU Interrogation. That was until he realized the passive nature dwelling in the boy's heart, which made Ibiki drop his application for the Uchiha to undergo his studies, and recommend him to the Hokage instead. To his surprise, the Third just gave a wise smile, saying he already had his intentions of making an eleven year old next in line.

Mastery of ways of the shinobi. Able to conceal his humanity, but not lose it. Walking the delicate line of mind, body, and soul with perfect balance. And he was loyal to the village. No, _loved _the village. Itachi was headed for success and a future. Ibiki wasn't the only one to see it. _Everyone_ saw it.

Then the Uchiha dropped it all in one night. Ibiki was baffled. Mad. He wanted to chase the kid down and demand what was going on in that head of his. And now he knew why, almost a decade later revealed to him in the least expected way. Revealed to him a hundred feet underground in the dungeons by the only child he had any expectations for. Yet here Itachi was, another captured animal for him to bleed.

Finally Ibiki knew. It would have been truly humiliating for Danzou to be beaten by a mere boy not even reaching puberty yet. The laugh had been on him, and now, it was on the world.

Ibiki chuckled as well, but there was no hint of humor. "But I haven't," he answered. "You see, here is what I don't understand. How you landed here. The best of the best. The highest leagued mercenaries that none of our sources has ever manage to track completely. ANBU Root ran into you by coincidence? I think not. No, you stepped into the red territory, with every intention and full awareness of the dangers."

He continued, knowing he was getting closer. "Do you know what I think? I think you came here on purpose, to be captured. There was no fight. But that raises another question. Why would you do that? Spy? Assassination? Suicide mission? No, that isn't logical. The risk is far too high and the chance of success is little to nothing. What do you think? Am I getting anywhere?"

No reply.

"Then you came here on your own whim and for your own selfish desires. But what can you retrieve from a dead city like this? I doubt it is for a nice walk to the family graveyard. Or for a head or two. No, the Akatsuki aren't that stupid to try and send one person to bag Danzou's head. So _what_? There is nothing here worth of value, nothing to steal, no one to see. Everything is burned, and everyone is _dead_."

A slight wince.

It was small, almost unnoticeable, but the professional interrogator caught it. Bull's-eye.

From the inside of his coat, Ibiki withdrew the file and opened it, flipping through each page.

"Quite beautiful, this file is. Marked with so many red crosses. Let's read, shall we?

"Teammates - deceased."

Ibiki sensed the immediate change in the prisoner, and smirking, flipped the page.

"Squad members - deceased."

It was affecting Itachi, already averting his gaze to the floor and pretending to be impervious to his voice.

"Friends - deceased."

Itachi closed his eyes. It wasn't working; he couldn't filter out the noise. Ibiki made sure his voice boomed and echoed in his mind.

"Mentors - deceased."

Cracking…

"Fiancée - deceased."

Cracking…

"Family - you were to one to make sure they would be dead. Aunts… uncles - deceased."

Ibiki didn't need to look up from his paper to know he was already inflicting wounds harsher and crueler than the whip.

"Father - deceased."

Breaking…

"Mother - deceased."

Breaking…

"Cousin - suspected for murder; official suicide… Deceased."

Not enough. He watched the Uchiha retreat deeply into his mind in a futile effort to try and block out his words. Expressionless. But Ibiki felt the dread and heard the hollow pangs from a hitched heart.

Ibiki flipped the page one more time. "Hmm… well this is not crossed out. Brother - alive."

Eyes snapped back open.

Got him.

Ibiki slammed the file shut. "My, this needs to be updated. Seems we've found our reason, don't you agree? The little brother that survived, the one you left alive. Was he ordered as well? Or did you do it for yourself? Either way, he caused you to come to Konoha. The only tie left you haven't severed from this city. What you seek from him, I do not know, but you failed to keep him under your clutches. It is too bad your small visit was in vain. Uchiha Sasuke…"

_Don't say it._

The interrogator stood up from his chair and made his way to the entrance, ignoring the silent plea.

_Please… don't._

He watched the Uchiha wait; stoic his face was. But eyes were begging. Don't say those words.

_He's your reason for being before me isn't he? _Should Ibiki spare mercy and lie? Sasuke left. He isn't in the city anymore. He's gone for a mission. He is still alive. Cling to your life because your brother is still alive.

_Please…_

No.

"Uchiha Sasuke… died six years ago," he finished, carefully studying coal black eyes.

Shattered.

The Uchiha sat numbly on the floor, still and unmoving. ANBU disabled his body. Ibiki tore apart his mind.

Ibiki exited the cell. His job was finished.


	4. III

Clarity of the mind was not the only blessing - or curse- bestowed upon the sadistic psychologist. Memories; how easy it was to unlock them.

Itachi had attempted to suppress the memories to forget, but he knew it was impossible. Like Ibiki, he could remember every event in his life with tremendous detail… every color, every smell, every sound. The chilling screams, the metallic taste of blood, image after image crashed through the broken barrier and flooded in, threatening to drown him, reliving his past over and over again in such realism that would send his Tsukuyomi to shame.

Itachi knew how analytical the man was, but nothing had prepared him for the encounter. He could hide himself as well as he could protect himself from the slicing words of his old mentor, which was quite pathetic, seeing as how he didn't even have the strength to pick up the fragments.

No, he couldn't reverse the damage, too consumed in his own mind. Consumed _by _his own mind.

Although he felt Ibiki's presence fade away and vanish altogether, he kept his gaze planted on the stone floor, so thankful the man did not look back at him.

Ibiki could have done much worse, but didn't. Perhaps he was disappointed. Or scornful. But whatever the other was thinking, Itachi was glad Ibiki sealed them away. The last thing Itachi wanted to receive from his punishment was… pity.

While Ibiki's thoughts were kept away for the comfort of the both of them, his message was quite clear. What Itachi was seeking, it was not worth it, and the other would do anything to divert him from his current path, even if it meant crushing his willpower and going to the extremities.

A wry chuckle almost escaped his lips. Since when has the man never gone to the extremes? Although, his dilemma right now could be a result of an irrational scheme as well. Perhaps Itachi absorbed some of the man's thought process.

_Always keep a dagger under your pillow, boy. They cut strings when you are in tight binds._

He had listened to the advice. Death had a way of loving to dance around the Uchiha, and if not for those brief words, he would have been long killed. From the attempted assassinations at night to the ambushes at Akatsuki, he had been able to survive all because of a simple precaution, one that turned into a habit. After Itachi had been captured in the past, Ibiki told him how to obtain an instant access to a defense when he was at his most vulnerable. It was the last thing his mentor ever taught him, but it was the most valuable advice as well. The communication between them ceased afterward. It was for the best.

The forgotten cigarette was long extinguished in the damp puddles. The Akatsuki robe was long discarded by his feet. The hidden dagger under it remained untouched.

His brother was dead, and his old mentor was sparing mercy on him by secretly planting the weapon. Morino Ibiki, the man with no mercy, was letting him set himself free.

The seconds ticked away, and the dagger waited to be used. The last line to pull him out.

End it before the ANBU comes back. End it before Danzou's plan unfolded, and he'd be trapped in his clutches again, like he was trapped at the massacre. Like his countless victims; a quick, simple, and clean death. A small slit in the throat and he will free. Nothing can stop him. Nothing can harm him. _Free._

_You've gotten what you wanted, haven't you_? _Your prayer was answered._

Answered, yet… unsatisfied. His heart was bleeding. So hollow and dead, yet so alive at the same time. Too unsatisfied with not knowing the demon that brought him to shackles, the demon with the red eyes that displayed an unsatiated thirst for violence and blood, with the icy voice, so inhuman and void of emotion, with the unquestionable loyalty to the State and the State only, the force that was shaking and enraging the ninja world.

The cold-blooded ANBU Root. The captain, so skilled and deadly, Itachi would have almost smiled in pride, only to bite down on his tongue later, holding back a scream. The scream wasn't for the pain of having his hands broken, but for the pain of disillusionment. He had been gravely mistaken. It wasn't his brother.

Ibiki wasn't lying about Sasuke.

Itachi should be relieved. But he wasn't. Instead, just the opposite, discovering he couldn't stop his heart from bleeding, crying so profusely, and so tight in his chest, it became painful. It was him. The captain was _him._

_Behind the black porcelain is Sasuke… you just have to reach out your hand and unmask him… _

Always cursed with knowing… he could slip and leave in ignorance with this one.

_Ignorance is bliss. Don't pay the price to figure it out._

Itachi didn't think it would affect him like this. He came for confirmation, not for a mental battle between himself. Contradictions. They never cease.

And for once, he could not figure out which part of him was in denial. Refusal to accept the truth and the fact his brother was dead? Or refusal to listen to his masochistic heart, the one threatening to tear itself apart.

_Why are you hesitating? That monster is not your brother… Sasuke is gone, gone, gone…_

Gone.

It was only logical to…

Itachi set a broken foot to the robe, and in a flash, the dagger underneath skidded out at a rapid speed. The dagger collided against the opposite wall, and with a click, deflected back at the perfect trajectory. The blade swiveled across the floor to him, and came to a complete halt with a light tap of his fingertips. By the time the ANBU guard caught the commotion and reacted, the weapon was already in his hands. Itachi smiled quite simply.

The texture; the roughness of the handle, but smoothness of the blade. The shape and size. He touched the bandaged end, so ancient and worn. It was Ibiki's personal dagger. He should be honored.

Itachi was quite pleased with himself, and the inner part of him calmed. The other part was shouting in despair, fighting against the insanity.

Horrified, the guard knew he was too late. The prisoner was going to kill himself; Itachi was going to stab the dagger point blank into his own chest, and the ANBU guard would not make it in time to prevent anything.

_Thud._

The guard's eyes widened, stunned.

_Clatter._

The noise of the weapon ringed throughout the chamber, shattering the unbearably stiff silence. The ANBU became speechless when his gloved hand was able to pin the armed hand harshly against the wall. The dagger fell to the ground harmlessly, swiveling on the stone floor.

_What happened?_

Had the prisoner hesitated? Was that why he was able to stop him?

_No…_

Flabbergasted, the guard confiscated the very real weapon. How could they have missed this? He eyed the prisoner with suspicion, making sure to take extra precautionary actions next time. It was deceiving, to look so harmless, yet be so dangerous.

The small mysterious smile of the victim's face remained. The guard stiffened to anticipate some attack upon him that would allow the other to escape. Was the blade poisoned? Had Itachi tricked him into picking it up? Or was he using it to make him come closer. Did he have a second weapon hidden planted?

The guard was ready, but nothing came. He became reassured when the prisoner closed his eyes and drifted into a sleepless state. Itachi's hands were weak, broken repeatedly during his stay in the dungeons. Hesitant, the guard released the wrist in his grip, and let it limply fall to the Uchiha's side. With no orders assigned, he stationed back to his post and pocketed the dagger, scrutinizing the other with a keener eye this time. He could not afford to let the other gain another opportunity.

The Akatsuki member had a chance to kill himself.

And he didn't take it.

* * *

The blinds were half inclined, dimming and transforming the wide room into a small suffocating space.

Hot mist snaked into the enclosed surroundings, and with a blow, more steam evaporated from the tea cup.

Swords glinted, refracting parallel lines of light that persisted to break through the lone window. The tips of the weapon touched opposite ends of the juncture between the neck and shoulder.

He didn't breathe.

Didn't blink.

He stayed still, while the blades continued to cause irritation. He forced himself to suppress the pure instinct to tear the wielders to pieces.

"You requested me," he stated calmly.

Following the wave of a wrinkled hand, the swords retracted. He listened as they slid into their proper casings, and the two ANBU stepped aside.

The old man in the shadows brought the hot liquid to his lips, paying little attention to the captain that bowed before him. On one knee, the captain held out a sealed scroll for the elder to accept.

The ceramic made a dull thud on the table.

"I trust it was a success," the old man wheezed, unthreading the parchment. He separated the paper, and after a brief glance, offered it into the shadows behind him. A hand clasped the item; the Root merged into the darkness.

"Of course," replied the icy voice from behind the mask.

"I hope you realize I did not call you to personally deliver a piece of paper."

Liquid poured into the rough ceramic, soundlessly. No splatter; no drop went amiss.

"Take off your mask."

He did, and the black porcelain fell into his gloved palm. Scattered sunbeams burned straight marks on his skin. Snow white skin has not touched daylight in so long, the rays stung. He wondered why he was commanded to do something so redundant. A mask did not hide his identity, not from this person.

"I want to know what you recall of the one you captured for me three days ago… the Uchiha."

He was caught off guard by the sudden request, but nevertheless answered smoothly and cautiously with no hesitation.

"Uchiha Itachi is the other remaining person of the Uchiha clan, joining the group of Akatsuki nine years ago. He has the capability to activate the sharingan, and his battle antics-" His impromptu report was interrupted.

"That is not what I am asking," the elder stated simply.

The captain's face was stone cold, and his eyes gave a penetrating glare to the old man. He carried each mission in perfection. He answered each question of every interrogation in _perfection_, and there was not one time he was a disappointment. So the internal unrest began to boil when he found nothing to say, nothing to easily roll off his tongue. He didn't know what it was the one before him wanted.

The small pause lasted longer than he would have liked, and the second's hesitation caused him lose his composure. Only for a second. He made his redemption when he realized he was being asked of a more personal question, one almost never spoken of. Ever.

"He shares my blood," he finally said.

Silence.

Sip.

His patience wore thin, needing an answer or explanation. He needed the satisfaction of knowing he was correct. He had no doubt, but the unrest did not agree.

The prolonged stillness of the atmosphere worsened his feelings of claustrophobia. Every visit was mundane, and whether it was morning, noon, or night, it was the same light with the same chilling warmth. The room felt like the room of a temple, only instead of awaiting the judgment of a deity, it was of a crippled old man. The same paranoid old man who routinely made him wait twenty minutes for a two minute order. Twenty minutes of continuous surveillance, he figured. A complete waste of time, because he never slipped anything. The distrust was mutual.

However, patience was something he was not blessed with, and his blood boiled like the tea on the kettle. So close was he to a frown. So close was he to a annoyed expression. Or an angry demand rephrased into a polite question to ask if he was correct. But he did not dare voice his thoughts and allowed the other _to enjoy his oolong_.

While he was on the brink of destroying the cup, the old man finally placed his tea down and acknowledged the captain. "There has been a change in plans. Drop the last task; a new assignment will be given, and there are also several things I need to inform you first."

That was his second surprise. He was never required to know anything outside of the goal and boundaries of his missions. Additional information led to knowledge, which led to thinking, which led to treachery. He didn't care about politics, or statistics, or opinions, or the effects of his actions. And certainly, he did not want to mingle missions with his past and current life, which had a habit of resulting in unwelcoming nuisances...

"-do you agree?" the other rasped.

Third surprise. He was asked to state an opinion.

"No," his lips automatically responded, snapping him out of his current train of thought. He returned to focusing on his briefing, and quickly processed the information the subconscious part of his brain collected from when he squandered off on other things. "It was more reasonable to discard a useless and disgraced shinobi. Sparing mercy allowed for further conflicts with the State, especially when he joined the opposing organization; pure foolishness on behalf of the last Hokage."

Perfect answer.

He noticed the suspicion playing the old man. The elder seemed focused on his drink, but his peripheral vision was scanning him inside and out. And the spies in the corner and outside the room as well, all waiting for some break in his character. Why, he did not know, but his voice revealed nothing that could be examined.

It must be frustration for the old man, to have someone so flawless.

Carefully sampling his next words, the elder responded in a low and collected voice. "But you do not understand the reason for the village's action."

The elder waited for some reaction from the captain, stringing each fact out in front of his most trusted servant, slowly and surely for them to sink in. The rebellions. The betrayals. The massacre… He intentionally weaved around some edges.

Just a small taste into the life of the man the ANBU captain so rebelliously fought to know several years ago, the ten year old Uchiha who had the audacity to _demand _information about his older brother. And now, the elder was revealing to him about the little pawn he had used and tossed to ensure his throne with little concern, because the person standing before him had no intention of harming him anymore.

The captain didn't _care _anymore. Yet, the elder still waited for the small spark behind the red eyes, some recollection. Some emotion. Some trigger.

He took his time with his approach and…

Nothing.

The elder wanted to laugh. He had promised the boy revenge… but revenge has always been a dish best served scalding hot. It was frozen now, and the concept of revenge was as foreign to his servant as the concept of emotions.

_So he really has forgotten._

Assured, the elder tossed a scroll. It was caught with precision.

"It contains all you will need to know."

The captain nodded once. Before he could make his leave, the old man spoke up again. "And you are assigned a new codename during the period of your mission."

A blank face.

"From now on, you are to refer to yourself as Sasuke."

"Uchiha Sasuke?" the captain questioned.

"No. Just… Sasuke."

"Hai, Danzou-sama."

The black porcelain returned to its owner's face, and in a wisp of smoke, he vanished. Sasuke… that name hasn't been used in a while.

The captain grinned as he entered the tunnels. If he was correct, he wouldn't need a scroll to know what his next task was.

Danzou-_sama_ was too predictable at times.

* * *

"What does he mean _I won't get anything_?" he shouted in fury at everyone and no one at the same time. The interrogator seethed, as he slammed the bars of the gate open. The sudden clangs and booms startled all the men behind him, and they respectfully backed away. The guards were not interested in having their necks on the line due to one careless step too close to the head interrogator.

A cleaning boy hesitantly looked up from his task, unable to stop his curiosity, and peeked over his mop to see the new prisoner dragged from the water chambers. He was going to have to clean that trail of ruddy liquid later.

But when he landed his eyes on the recently removed man, he gasped. The nameless person was absolutely beautiful. Long raven locks that stuck onto the person's face. Pale skin, like those with pure and royal blood, but also blue, like the orphans suffering from frostbites in the harsh weather this winter. Konoha was reaching its lowest temperature in history, and the cleaning boy was wearing three coats to keep warm, especially at the dungeons. He sympathized, but returned to work, stealing another furtive glance or two between intervals. Beautiful, he thought again.

Drenched and shivering, the prisoner fell down to the feet of the head interrogator.

An hour has passed since he called his men to submerge the Uchiha in icy salt water, and the interrogator was tired of waiting. It was his final day, and Ibiki had proven to be completely useless, delivering one haunting line.

_Give up, you'll never get anything from him._

No, no, no! he denied. The leader would not blink twice to kill him if he failed! Hiding his worries on the hopeless situation behind his solid mask, he placed forward his most intimidating voice. "Had enough yet?" he sneered.

The other did not even flinch, only showing disinterest and boredom. Then, the filth had the _nerve _to stare blankly at him and to challenge his authority with an unimpressed look. Yet, the simple return made the interrogator step aback. Somehow, this defeated man can still cause him more fear than he could deal back. This realization set his temper off.

Infuriated, he snatched a whip from the hands of the guard stationed behind and without any real justification, lashed out. He was supposed to have let healers treat the wounds before inflicting again, but at this point, it didn't matter. Whether or not the Uchiha died did not affect him now. He was going to get the noose by the end of the day either way.

His first draw of blood was invigorating. The way the hide cut so deeply into the fragile skin of the Uchiha's right cheek pleased him to no end. The eyes that challenged him closed, and he felt the power in his superior position. He showed off his strength. With as much force - power - as he could, he did it again and again, aiming for that disgustingly perfect face.

It must hurt.

He must be in pain.

He WILL TALK.

"Last…" Crack. "Chance…" Crack. "Uchiha."

A wild grin was morphing into the face of the interrogator. He was creating art, and his canvas was bleeding for him. As the cowhide engraved its final and most devastating mark, the interrogator's men fought to step forward and back at the same time. Fear commanded them to retreat. But… another force drove them closer to the befallen man.

From his pocket, an aged dagger was drawn. The interrogator smirked. "You thought you could escape us with _this_? There is _no _escape from the State of Konoha, except in death, and death is by my hand _alone_. I have kindly offered two choices… one, tell us of the Akatsuki, and I'll gladly end your pitiful life. Or… two…" He squatted down and leaned forward, letting the blade trace against the skin of the prisoner's neck. "Or two, I will make your last minutes here hell and have you _beg_ for mercy by the time I am through. And even when you crawl to me, I'll just let the incoming medics rip your damn eyeballs out of their sockets and Laugh. It. Up."

His smirk was wiped off by a simple smile.

"You are ruined either way," the other whispered, taunting him.

The interrogator went blind with fury. Without thinking, he stabbed the blade deep into his victim's shoulder and slashed it down. Along with the flesh, the wet fabric clinging to it ripped to shreds. Blood no longer flowed so profusely, not with the blood pressure dropping to a dangerous low.

_I'm killing him_, he thought, almost giddy, _he's as good as dead_.

_I'm killing him, I'm killing an Akatsuki._

Yet, the only person screaming was still him. The only one breaking the silence was still him. The other wasn't reacting even as his torso was sliced so gruesomely. He was trembling with pain, his nerves made sure of that, but no sound escaped.

"SCREAM, DAMN YOU!" the interrogator spat, lifting the blade up again to deal another mark. A hand caught his.

"S-sir… p-please. You'll k-kill him," a man said in a quivering voice, scared for his own life should the prisoner die - a clear disobedience of orders. A few of the others were gathered near, obviously sharing the same thoughts.

The cleaning boy had enough. He abandoned his duties and ran, knowing it was going to get ugly when the men questioned the actions of their superior. He mopped up blood, but never his own. He did not even stop to apologize as he bump into someone down the tunnels, wishing to get as far from the violent scene as soon as possible.

Laughing hysterically, the interrogator turned from one guard to the next.

"Ah- Ahaha- AHAHAHA!" he cried, tears in his eyes, discovering the situation suddenly hilarious. "I understand now! Of course! How could I have not known?"

"I- we- don't un-understand, s-sir…" one said, unsure of how sane the commanding man was anymore.

"You. And you. And you. All of you, you've been dying for my permission haven't you? Well, it's granted!" he laughed, his tone ridiculously high-pitched with an unfounded mirth. "Fuck him. Fuck him raw. I don't give a shit anymore. He's yours!"

The men were speechless.

But their mad leader wasn't wrong… even they could spot the lust in each other's eyes. They've been craving for the Uchiha the minute they've landed their eyes on him, but never before have they dared to take him. He was too crucial, too important, too _powerful_ even when he was powerless. Even as the head interrogator gave them clear permission… they hesitated.

Out of the four, one gave in to temptation. No matter how infamous, Uchiha Itachi was exposed and vulnerable… one hundred percent defenseless. As he stepped closer, he watched the prisoner's eyes glaze over.

Was he really going to…? He's done it hundreds of times with other captives. The man's doubt ebbed away the closer he moved, too bewitched by the other lying before him. The man swallowed; he was hungry. Too hungry. He wanted to touch that blemished pale skin and eat away at that perfect face. He wanted to penetrate him. Dirty him. Corrupt him. Take everything away. Have him under, whimpering and crying desperately for help like the hundreds that were trapped in these tunnels before.

All he wanted was that surge of pleasure, and he was too damn hungry to listen to the threads of warning in the air, the ones that all labeled the particular prisoner forbidden.

Untouchable.

But he wanted to touch anyways and rip away the last few pieces of soaked fabric protecting the other.

The Uchiha's eyes completely hollowed out by the time he reached down and… the man froze.

Clap.

Clap. Clap. _Clap_.

"My, I was not expecting to be entertained when I arrived," a new voice spoke, directly behind the man who approached. "The notorious Uchiha Itachi, member of the inner circle of Akatsuki, master of the sharingan, and one of the last remaining carriers of the Uchiha blood… degraded to a mere _sex toy_ for these four weaklings. If it wasn't for my mission, I would have almost let this performance continue… _almost_."

The man did not have a chance to even glance at the speaker, before he saw his own body collapse to the floor next to him, his head rolling away from view.

All eyes were suddenly focused on the new visitor. He returned his stained blade to its sheath, and before anyone could to blink, he was inches away from the head interrogator. His finger lifted the chin of the person, and his red eyes glared menacingly down at terrified eyes of the other.

"W-who are you?"

The visitor chuckled. "You people get stupider by the second. Who do _think_ I am?"

Noticing the attire of the person, the interrogator felt his knees grow weak. An elite ANBU Root _captain_ was currently one minute away from snapping his neck as easily as he did to the corpse on the floor.

"M-m-my ap-pologies I-I wasn't e-expecting… I m-mean…" He gulped when the captain pulled him closer, and the black porcelain was almost touching his own mask. "Only the d-doc-doctors were… s-supposed to have come to t-take e-eyes and at- at much l-later than n-now." His voice was reduced to a squeal as he visibly shrunk, sinking into a semi-kneel.

"The doctors…" the captain replied icily, "were dismissed _by me_. Danzou-sama has issued a change in orders after incompetence in a certain department of the Establishment. The Torture and Interrogator division, of course, as they simply could not extract one… single… useful… word." His voice flowed like silk, and the interrogator became too captivated and hypnotized to notice that his own mask shattered. The fragments littered onto the floor to reveal the pathetically weak and wrinkled face of an aged man.

The last thing he knew was being slammed to the wall, his stomach wide open to the tunnel's dead air.

The most disturbing laugh broke free of the cell, as the captain jerked free the intestines of the interrogator from the body, acid and blood dripping slowly down onto the wet floor. He wiped his glove once against the wall, as he slowly paced over to the other three petrified men. Finally discarding both the clean and ruined glove altogether onto the floor, he played with the tips of his fingers. Blue lightning sparked and discharged into the damp atmosphere, tingling every cell of the guards.

Without warning, he teleported to behind the closest man and tapped his index and middle finger down on his victim's shoulder. The third fell, a burnt carcass joining the other two littered on the ground.

"Two," the captain informed the remaining men, "is more than enough to bring the prisoner to Laboratory Six of the Hospital, is it not?"

The men gave a delayed stiff nod.

"Ah… and before I forget..."

He bent down to face the prisoner and lifted his chin, examining his features. That face was still beautiful even lashed with red, he noted.

The other was entranced by him as well. The captain noticed how his brother almost leaned towards his hand at the contact, and how his lips widened a miniscule, as if he wanted to speak yet couldn't find the words. Dead eyes became much more alive.

The captain watched with amusement the transformation. Such horror, fear, pain… such vivid emotions that only flickered on at the announcement of his arrival. Such live emotions inflicted and caused by only _him_. He wanted to see more, and he licked his lips in anticipation.

Suddenly, a syringe containing black liquid was injected into the jugular of the captive. Sadly, the dull orbs dimmed, and he closed his brother's eyelids. "Sleep well, _aniki_," he cooed out, loud enough for everyone to hear, and laid down the body.

The needle was carelessly tossed onto the floor. The captain then stood up and made he leave, enjoying the two's shock.

"He's fading, thanks to that little knife trick your boss tried earlier. If he dies, the deaths of you two will be _far_ _more excruciating _than what you've seen…" the Root breathed, just as he walked past. "And I do hope you think twice about even _thinking _of touching him again."

Finally, he added a barely audible hiss before vanishing altogether.

The men were still shaking days after they completed their task. As they locked themselves in their own chambers and beds, they forced themselves to forget the violent deaths, only to jump up at night, believing the Root had finally come to claim their lives as well. They felt Satan breathing down their necks, trapped in his clutches.

The captain never did hunt them down.

However, neither of them would ever forget the captain's warning before he merged with the darkness. He made it crystal clear.

The Uchiha was his.

His alone.

And anyone bold enough to think otherwise would watch his own organs slowly extracted one by bloody one.


	5. IV

X-rays were tacked onto a board, charts were held up to the light. Vials were extracted by syringe and injected into test tubes. Flexible, plastic pipes connected and disconnected, gasses continually exchanged. Instruments were taken on and off the cart, lab coats fluttered by, as each professional took swift, elongated steps towards their rushed destinations.

One doctor stood apart from the rest in the giant, luminous underground laboratory. Crossed-legged on a stool, clutching an aching forehead, muttering incoherent numbers. A personally customized, oversize lab coat, and a pair of gloves washed so many times the white turned a beige. Papers everywhere. Yet, despite the appearance, the same doctor remained one of the most dedicated experts of the Foundation, proof in insignia melted onto the doctor's headband. After all, within the last half decade, the doctor cured hundreds of diseases, invented twenty different kinds of hair care products, and held the record as the second person _ever _to acquire such extensive knowledge of both traditional and contemporary healing.

So, it surprised everyone when after forty minutes of continuous pencil drumming, ten minutes of number crunching, and five minute of cursing and hair-pulling, the doctor still turned up empty-handed. And _stumped_.

The cycle ended with a carrier mouse and an updated report. Two minutes of lazy skim-reading later, the frustrated doctor stood up. "Got it!"

"Why couldn't this have came earlier?" The doctor slapped the papers. "And here I was, listing fifty million causes when they could have just have given me this one symptom."

Along the doctor's path was a researcher holding up cubes under a fluorescent bulb, monotonous mumbling to himself. As the doctor passed by, a tinted sample was exchanged between hands, as the eight syllable term identifying the substance.

"CW80 or 81?" the doctor sighed.

"80."

A few feet further, the doctor was interrupted again, by a female coworker this time.

"Sensei, kidneys are malfunctioning; we can't narrow the suspect without an intermediate drug, but the toxicity levels has a twenty-two point one eight seven nine-"

"Has it failed yet?

"On the verge-"

"Yes. No."

"No. At least, to our current knowledge-"

"Erythropoietin, then. Don't ID."

The female was replaced by a male chemist who presented a graph. "Indicators reports 17-ketosteriods levels have dropped to untraceable amounts, should I prepare-"

The doctor squinted at the graph. "Yes. And this will help."

"…serum amyloid P…"

"…the inflammation is worsening…"

"…and attacking here..."

After marching through a horde of confused scientists asking for advice, a dozen researchers frantically shuffling through scrolls, another dozen formulating the drugs, a discussion group exchanging information, and a family of carrier mice, the doctor finally arrived at a colossal wall covered inch by inch by entirely summoning scrolls. A few final notes, then the report was tacked onto a scroll and the report poofed away, just as the doctor caught a tired female medic in her thirties, lanky, with a mane of chopped strawberry blonde, also submitting a report.

"Oh, sensei, didn't see you there," she said, startled. "What are you doing here?"

The doctor leaned against a pillar, purposely gearing away from view of the lab. "Catching a break. I haven't slept since this patient. How long has it been now?"

The medic relaxed her shoulders, her posture softened. "A week. Maybe a week and a half now."

"Felt like months. Eight hours on grafting instructions for burnt tissue. Then three days, _three days_, on a malignant virus eating away at the lungs, and even then, the best thing I came up with is a temporary drug to retard it."

Smiling slightly, the female pointed a finger at herself. "Me, my team and I are focusing on shape-shifting cells. We finally figured how earth-natured chakra can be incorporated to transform its structure instead of water. I just sent the samples right now."

"Cells that… shift? Wasn't there a similar research three years ago, but discontinued?"

"Actually, confiscated. And yes, three years ago, when a daimyo's wife lost another son in the womb. There was a mutation in her egg cells, so she offered one billion ryou for us to find a way to have a child."

"One _billion_? There are hundreds on the street."

The comment was both shocking and offensive. After furtively glancing around, the medic whispered lowly, "Don't say that!"

Suppressing a snort, the doctor replied, "Eh, at least it's more funding."

"You're horrible!" the female medic fake-gasped. "And the weaponry department will receive the cash, they _always _do."

"Weaponry… right. Sometimes I forget there's a war on the out-" The doctor was interrupted when a suspicious document appeared in the background. "-side."

The doctor grabbed the papers off the scroll. _"For__ me_? I just submitted the last one a minute ago!" The doctor violently flipping through each page. "And the next operation too! I almost never complain about overworking, but this is ridiculous."

"What is it now?"

"More malignant cells apparently…" The doctor scanned over the papers at rapid speed, absorbing the information.

Shaking her head, the medic whispered, "I really pity the poor prince. I heard the rebels tortured him just out of grudge for us having an alliance with His Imperial Majesty. That incurable virus, all those organ failures, and the physical abuses inflicted by them… thank the gods our troops had saved him in time. But I can't imagine how hard it'll be for him with his body's conditions."

"I can. I diagnosed over half of them, and he's a living miracle alright. I just have a hard time swallowing the fact that our patient is royalty. Based off what I've learned, his body is rather persistent in surviving."

"…I don't understand, sensei."

"How many men of nobility do you know can live through two days in the hands of the Resistance? Can't even live an hour without shoving mooshu pork down their throats…" A quick survey of the area was done to see the two were indeed alone. "Just a theory but…" Curling a finger, the doctor beckoned the other to lean in. "Rumor goes that while back, the emperor got a mistress pregnant, a _kunoichi_. Nine out of ten odds, the prince has some shinobi blood in him, which explains the strong chakra responses. _Meaning_, the Fire Emperor's denial of his firstborn as illegitimate was a bunch of bullshit."

"_No._"

"Yes."

"_No_," the other repeated, eyes wide, "I can't believe it! But my gods… it makes sense! The sensors, and how the body accept the chakra and how it was so odd considering regular patients would respond with a reverse magnetism to repel it and and-"

"_Shh_. I know."

The female medic clapped hands over her mouth. "Oohh. I smell a sex scandal!"

"I don't know what you smell, but if the _Empress _found this information out… phew! Fifth Great War right there."

The two quietly chuckled. Then the doctor recovered first and returned to skimming the update report. Flipping to the last page, the doctor raised a brow.

_URGENT: SMD 012601, your expertise is required at chamber D6 for assistance in operation no. 30._

Rereading the phrase several times, and flipping to the back of the sheet to find no further information, the doctor tensed.

Noticing the change, the female medic cautiously questioned, "Sensei? Something wrong?"

"Ah, no, I've just been called down," the doctor said, her tone drained of all the mischievous mirth from before. A sharp piercing gaze in place, she stated aloud, "Pleasure speaking with you. We'll continue this discussion on transfusion of platelets at a later time."

Catching the cue, the other medic stiffened and bowed, returning a firm "Hai."

After watching the other scurry away, the doctor grimly filed the other way. She pried out her hair pin and let long pink locks cascade down before swirling it up again into a firmer bun. With a snap of her fingers, a cold tingling sensation coursed down, as she was cleansed with a sterile jutsu. On her way, she performed a few other complex jutsus as well, her hands moving at a blurring motion. Her uniform automatically stiffened and whitened; the sleeves were new again. Her headband was shifted back in a neat position, the emblem in clear sight.

Her countenance transformed to a professional and emotionless façade, and her inner persona was replaced by her outer one.

The change was dramatic. Unlike the first time, no one bothered her, as she strode to the double glass doors leading out of the laboratory. Everyone's eyes were concentrated on their tasks, avoiding contact with the Tokubetsu Iryou-nin. After all, no one recognized her as the messy-yet-intellectual doctor anymore, but as the cold, pragmatic Foundation scientist who tolerated no slack, no mistakes, and nothing short of perfection.

The doors swung open, and Haruno Sakura exited the laboratory without a word.

* * *

Chamber D6 was a forbidden chamber. Not many know of mysterious workings of the chamber past the workers, the surgeons. Meanwhile, the only linkage to the outside world were numerous transportation scrolls for communications. Millions of papers and reports were sent back and forth from different laboratories of different districts; observations and conditions sent out while conclusions and antidotes sent in.

The chamber itself held an impressive collection of sterile shields, insulator shields, cooling shields and even sound barriers and air vacuums. But only one thing captured the attention of everyone else: the operation table, a smooth clear glass plate supporting a body, an aura of chakra radiating a soft glow, a white veil covering the carcass, a bloodbath surrounding said tainted veil, decorating the border like roses.

A sinister smirk played the lips of the man in the shadows, far away from the light emitted by the operation lights, as he held the strangled surgeon in his grip.

"I really hope for the sake of everyone in the room that he is very skilled in revivals… or else, there shall be six more dead bodies…"

* * *

Sakura stared at the two guards on the floor. After pressing two fingers against their jugulars, she confirmed they were indeed alive. Just in a very, very, _very _deep sleep.

No signs of struggle, she noticed. Either they fell asleep on the job, or took one calming pill too many. State shinobi were addicted to those pills, a narcotic drug that sated the nerves.

This wasn't going unreported. Sakura despised incompetence.

She double checked her appearance, then tried the handle of the door. Surprisingly, it was unlocked.

Freezing dry air wisped out through the crack, and a perforating perfume of alcohol and antibiotics assaulted her senses. Her pupils were still adjusting to the foreign place when at least six pair of luminescent eyes immediately landed on her. From within the darkness, one finger pointed straight at her. "_Her! _This person will do it!"

The seventh pair of shockingly bright crimson eyes landed on her. Its piercing gaze would have sent Sakura stumbling back, but she did not, and pushed the door behind her close. The door sealed the chamber air tight. Sharp analyzing eyes absorbed very inch of the situation, landing on the abandoned operation table first, the group of surgeons in the corner next - a few in fear, the majority nonchalant-, and finally on the armored shinobi last.

In even, steady paces, Sakura advanced towards the head surgeon, the man against the wall. "Specialized Doctor of Medicine, code 012601, at your service," she recited, ignoring the Root.

However, before her handshake was returned, she found herself flung towards the wall. She hadn't even registered the force of the impact when the shinobi caged her. He examined her carefully, pleased by her fast recovery.

"The doctor is a woman?" he breathed, as black porcelain nearly brushed against Sakura's exposed jaw and neck. His body was far too close for Sakura's comfort, his voice far too rich and velvety for her taste, and the spiraling demon red eyes far too hypnotizing for her safety.

Immediately, she retaliated. The startled Root backed away barely in time of Sakura's punch.

Sakura lifted her chin high, an icy glare reflecting in her eyes. "I fail to see how my gender is relevant."

The captain tilted his head and assessed the damage of the monstrous punch. "Don't you know it is unwise to assault a high ranking officer?" A blade gently caressed Sakura's neck, as he whispered lovingly in her ear, "_I may never know what I might accidentally do in return._"

Unfazed, Sakura replied, "Don't you know it is unwise to harass a high rank doctor? Because I may never know what I might report, like of a ninja who had the _audacity_ to _threaten _a Tokubetsu Iryou-nin."

"Then I'll just have to silence those lips," the captain chuckled, the blade already angling towards her mouth.

That was the last straw for Sakura. Without warning, she spun around and jabbed two fingers straight into the captain's body. The sword clattered to the floor. Suppressing a grin, she condescendingly looked down at the fallen body. "Your chakra's so wonderfully dense by drugs, a juncture point was easily sensed. Stopping the flow altogether was quite easy."

Kneeling down by the fallen man, she mocked, "Lack of chakra circulation. Symptoms: paralysis, suffocation, blackening of ocular senses, internal bleeding of heart, instantaneous failure of liver, kidneys, pancreas… all leading to inevitable _death _within one minute of when you decided to Piss. Me. Off."

Three claps.

"Punishment for the physical assault of a Root shinobi, death."

Sakura jerked her head in the direction of the voice to find the captain, unscratched and unmarred, sitting in a chair besides the operation table. The bright light shining down on the patient just missed his figure.

A wide smirk was concealed behind porcelain. "Punishment for the verbal assault of a Root shinobi, death." The genjutsu placed on Sakura lifted, and the defeated replica turned to nothing but air. The captain continued, his smooth voice rolling out each sentence quicker and quicker, "Punishment for attempted murder, death, for manslaughter, death, for homicide, death. Punishment for actual murder of a Root shinobi, death, of a Root _captain_… another rather very extremely painful, excruciating and torturous… death."

Standing up from the chair, the captain traced the edge of the operating table. "That's all of your seven lives, doctor," he taunted. "Treatment? Having entertained me for one minute. I had to confirm of your identity, but shall we now stop these games?"

A flicker of fiery anger vanished from behind Sakura's eyes. Regaining her professionalism, she stepped onto the lifted platform. She listened for instructions from the surgeons, but was greeted by the thuds of their falling, unconscious bodies.

"Don't worry over them," the captain commanded, his tone quite bored. "Only orders."

"Show me." She did nothing without official documentation.

A parchment was extended towards her. "The patient is under my command at the end of operation 30, which I was informed ended at midnight of tonight. That was approximately… nine minutes ago. Unfortunately, when I arrived, there were a few things not to my taste… including his death. The surgeons were in the middle of revitalization, but were unsuccessful. You can see, I had gotten tired of waiting."

"_Your _command?" Sakura reread the paper and saw it was stamped with the official degree of the dictator, the highest order. "The patient is so unstable, he can't leave this sterile barrier for at least a month!"

The captain's eyes narrowed dangerously. "I will not wait any further, stable or not. And the dead cannot 'die again' if they remain dead. I ask politely for the final time. _Revive him_."

Sakura crumbled the sheet. "I have no choice, now do I?"

Rolling up her sleeves, she focused her chakra into her palms, then to the captain, tilted her head in the direction of the covered body. He complied with her request. In one movement, the veil was pulled down.

As she took in the appearance of the patient, Sakura almost lost her focus of chakra in her hands. Snapping out of her enchantment, she redoubled her chakra flow. Her hands slamming down on the chest full-force, Sakura surged her chakra through the entire body to analyze its state and cause of death. She received alarming results.

_There is no way in hell he even lived for the past week_, she thought, sensing the lack of communication from many major organs and channels.

Her chakra returned back to her fingertips. "Cause of death: failure of heart. I'm going to get the pulse going again." Without bothering to wait for consent, she fired miniature capsules of chakra to each chamber of the heart in a set metronome. When nothing responded, she increased the intensity until the heart returned to life, beating faintly at first before catching on rhythm. Her chakra slowly pulled out, then webbed into the body again to encourage the cells reactivate and function.

And suddenly, the patient broke a gasp for air. Breaths hitched, indicating working lungs that searched desperately for oxygen.

_Hell yes! Everything is recoveri-_

A hand suddenly touched her arm before sliding away, and barely audible words were muttered. Her smile faded as she saw a pained expression displace a peaceful one.

She pulled away her chakra too late. It had already repaired the nerves, along with blood and chakra circulation.

Instantly, the body was trembling.

That was when she realized that despite the condition his body was in, the patient was, somehow, resurfacing back to consciousness. As if all the warnings and signals weren't enough, the fluttering eyelids should have confirmed it for her. Whatever words she heard before could be dismissed as unconscious mumbling. Whatever shaking she felt earlier were mere reactions of the body. But she knew if she didn't do something quick, the next noise to break out would be screams, the next movements, struggling beyond her restraint.

Not to mention the indescribable pain the patient would be in without analgesics and ten million sedatives.

"Narcotics! Shit! Shit! Shit!" she cursed, scanning for a clean syringe and the drugs. She attacked a nearby huge medical cart, grabbed a needle. However, no amount of shuffling and equipment tossing uncovered what she needed.

Finally, she discovered a cart and knelt down, prying open the door to the inside cabinet. Finding only stacks of trays upon trays, she pulled one out, hoping it contained the drugs.

To the captain, she desperately urged, "He needs to go back under or there's no possible-" The upper tray came toppling out, sliding and landing on top of her lap. An impossibly foul, metallic scent instantly penetrated her senses. She stopped mid-sentence, turned to the source of the smell, and paled over.

She froze.

Meanwhile, the most bone chilling laugh Sakura had ever heard rang throughout the chamber, as she remained paralyzed with her hand still on edge of the tray.

Absolutely delighted, the captain appeared besides the asleep patient, his gloved hand caressing the other's face.

"Why would you possibly do that, doctor?" he inquired, as he leaned the patient's head close to his chest, gently raising him up. "He's finally awake again."

With one elegant pull, the entire veil pried loose, and he wrapped it around the patient, draping it over the skin and concealing the body. The captain easily lifted him up with his arms, making the patient look as light as a china doll.

The patient continued to remain listless, sans the fluttering eyelids and the haggard breaths, his face buried into the captain's shoulder. His lips were slightly parted for oxygen, and inaudible strands of words repeated over and over again.

One hand slid loose and hanged down, revealing sickening snow white skin. The legs were exposed, showing trails of dried blood down the calf, spiraling all the way to the toe. Although hidden by the veil, the trails could be traced higher up the thighs, where the color was more prominent, the same shade of the stains of the sheets.

"Time to return home," the captain chuckled darkly to the patient in his arms. "I'm sure your family misses you _dearly_."

In a wisp of air, both were gone, leaving the echoes bouncing silently in the chamber. Leaving the rotting odor permeating the air.

Sakura stared in horror at the trays of neatly stacked tissues and organs, all freshly removed from the body less than a week ago. It wasn't just a small area of poisoned skin. It wasn't just a portion of a liver. Drenched in black blood, laid neat stakes of rotting human intestines and organs that had been carved away one by one, sliced off piece by piece.

_Why is the body rejecting this drug, sensei? We can't find any plausible explanation…_

_They demand more immunosuppressants, but my entire team thinks it too radical to triple the dosage!_

_Blood? That's it! All the reactants, all the toxins... we'll check for any internal bleeding…_

_Sensei, I have sent a paper on impending possible transplants… we just can't seem to detoxify the system… it's eating itself away…_

_What is going on down there? Nothing is making sense… either an important piece of information was left out, or we have overlooked something crucial…_

Inside her mind, the billion little jigsaw puzzles that had accumulated for the past week all fell into place. The internal body parts staring back at her answered every medical question, gave an explanation for every symptom.

Her shoulders shivered. Holding back a laugh, Sakura tried to control herself. _I guess the surgeons had enough of all the complications and decided to get rid of their troubles… all of them… _And what better way than physically remove every possible obstacle and hindrance from the picture?

The entire abdomen was sliced open, the innards completely taken out, and stitched back together again. _But… that means something in return had to be placed back inside… doesn't it? _she deduced, her brows furrowing.

Shaking her head, Sakura broke from her trance and gotten a hold of reality again. She shoved the tray back in and closed the cabinet door before making her way to the exit. Unlike a decade ago, it wasn't too difficult to keep any human alive anymore, defiant of nature or not. The question was how. Science and technology. Forbidden jutsus. Religion and its blasted rituals. Just a question of _how_…

Sakura had long decided it was best to not question, let the blood wash away from her hands. She was given an order to show up and assist in a revitalization. She brought the son of the Imperial Emperor back to life, even if she concluded the patient's identity was anything but.

No, the stomach-flipping stench would continue to follow her.

_Please… not yet… don't let me die yet…_

And then, there was that whispered plea. She had never heard of anyone who so desperately struggled to remain alive, and now her intuition chipped away at her, telling her she should not have done that.

_Please… Not yet…_

"What the hell did I get myself in to?" she muttered, pushing open the double doors back to the lab again.

Something definitely was wrong.

* * *

_Please God._

_Send me back to my brother…_

_Send me back to Sasuke…_

A hand meekly clutched black fabric for dear life.

_Don't let me die yet._

"Wake up, dear brother," the captain cooed, setting the body down upon layers and layers of white sheets. However, the hand still clung to the fabric around his arm, unwilling to let go, as its owner continued to tremble and silently plea. To whom, he had no knowledge of.

Eyes still remained screwed shut, and the captain could see Itachi was far from returning to reality any time soon. With a jolt of electricity coursing down his arm, the captain forced the other to release his grip on him, watching the hand fall among the sheets.

A small vial of clear fluid suddenly appeared in his gloved hands and a needle was shoved in, extracting its contents. The same needle was then injected straight into the vein in one of the wrists, and the body immediately went motionless, the pain alleviating.

Slowly drifted back to sleep, Itachi muttered a few final words, his breath departing from his lips.

Upon hearing those unmistakenable words again, the captain lifted his hand to his mask. Porcelain fell, as he leaned down, their faces a hair from one to another. "You won't die," Sasuke hushed, before capturing those lips with his own.

So sweet.

So delicious.

So wanton.

It was nectar. It was addicting. He wanted to go deeper, drawing out the air from his brother's lungs.

It took Sasuke his entire self control to break apart, even then, he continued to lick his own lips for the lingering taste. He knew it was going to become troublesome if he has to continue waiting like this. He detested waiting, and the longer he waited, the bloodier it was going to get.

After one last look at the angel garnished in red and white, Sasuke stood up and turned away, walking over to the single exit.

"You won't die," he reassured again, a sinister grin etching across his features. "Not now. Not ever."


	6. V

Dreams are a type of illusion. Dreams are also self-inflicted genjutsus, in which the subconscious mind refuses to remain silent any longer and turns on its master. Dreams are harmless, and only as complicated as one's mind can make it, resulting in blurry scenes and floating thoughts. Cryptic at best, silly at worst. Senseless and harmless.

Itachi's mind was far from simple. His memory was refined, his instincts keen, his intelligence unmatched. His perception allowed him to see the world in dimensions most men cannot, and as a result, his subconscious became much more… realistic.

Frightening.

So frightening that a six year old Itachi would pull his legs together and rest his head on his knees while the moon beamed down on him. Those _dreams _terrorized him to the point he forced himself awake, and when he fell asleep, he was always dragged back into the cursed realm.

Night after night of black when Itachi forced his eyes open. Red when they closed. The moon's continual beam. The unbreathable air. The screams. Cries. Shrieks and laughter. Colors so vivid, sounds so piercing, touches so disgusting and _vile_… It was a sea that swallowed reality and created a whole new world of violence, treachery, debauchery, and every other little ripple of darkness. The same world later named the Tsukuyomi, the manifestation of endless nights of terror that devoured any unfortunate soul spellbound within the jutsu.

A grown shinobi would break to pieces after 72 hours of viewing such a world, let alone a child who had to endure night and night of it, each time with another part of his sanity torn away. So much that Itachi eventually couldn't separate what was real and what wasn't, as he dug his kunai into a man like a demon processed, only wondering if he really was dirtying his hands with human blood or merely destroying the devil that dwelled in his imagination.

It was all too much. At seven years old, Itachi was so sickened to the core of the sight of dried blood encrusted under his fingernails, the taste of bitter sand that refused to wash from his mouth, the cries of misery and hysteric curses aimed at him - _a demon, a fiend, the mad child that deserved to be burned _-, and the feel of coarse hands roaming through him, their burning trails on his skin craved into his memory, that he'd twist and contort in his bed, pleading desperately into his pillow for it to stop. The images to stop, the noise to stop, everything to _stop stop stop_, and he would cry what he had done wrong to deserve this.

All until his mother finally saved him with a worried shake. And each morning, Uchiha Mikoto swallowed down her heartache as her eldest son cringed from her touch, shied away, and hid his face behind strands of tangled hair.

Even she didn't know -didn't _want _to know- what was wandering in the mind of the child -_her _child-, and though Mikoto knew he secretly wanted her help -his _mother's _help_-_, she decided best not to question. To keep her distance. She left her elder son alone and went to covet her younger one instead, the _normal _son, wanting to think the problem would resolve itself with time.

Ignore, and maybe, just maybe, the problem would go away.

Only one day did Mikoto stopped pretending that her son was going to be fine, one day she freed herself from her delusion. On that day, she looked up to the boy she had neglected, eyes pooling with guilt. If she had done _anything _at all years ago, perhaps everything could have been prevented. Had she only cradled him for one night and told him he wasn't alone. Stopped sliding food through his door. Asked him to join the family in the festivals. Gave him a hug or kiss before he left. Told him that he could drop his mission for today, just this one day, and together, they would buy groceries at market, stop for some tea and desserts, then go home and prepare a dish he liked. Maybe then she would then finally know her son, learn if he had a favorite color, or an interest, or a future dream, or a girl he liked, and give him advice because he was still _her son_, and he would soon be undergoing puberty.

Had she only.

_I'm sorry, I'm so sorry_, she internally cried as red eyes glared down at her.

But Itachi never blamed her as he sent his katana down through her chest. That day was also the same day he ripped her heart apart, the day she died.

Dreams are a type of illusion, but Itachi did not have dreams. He had _nightmares_, but his nightmares were not illusions.

They were the cold, raw, untainted _truth _of how despicable humanity was. They unveiled the mirage cast upon the world, a world in which humans lived day by day, too contained in their measly ideals of _peace _and _love _to notice the shuriken flying past or the dagger hidden behind their companion's back.

And despite everything, Itachi held onto these same ideals. He fought vigorously for peace, and he wished deeply for love, because a younger boy had once showed him that both were a small, forgotten part of reality too. The blanket clutched in a small fist being dragged along the floors. The creak of his bedroom door that suddenly alerted Itachi to look up - look up and see there was someone real waiting for him.

Sasuke proved nightmares wrong as he beamed and rushed to his brother's side, eyes showing only the purest trust and innocence, and Itachi thought for a minute how warm the moonlight could be when lit upon his baby brother's face. How the room suddenly glowed and became _home _again. Sasuke wasn't afraid of him, wasn't afraid to touch as he curled besides his brother, ears pressed against Itachi's chest.

_Why not go to okaa-san instead? I won't be of much help, Sasuke._

_Nuh-uh! I want to be with you, nii-san! _

_She can sing you a lullaby._

_Yours is better._

_I don't sing, Sasuke._

_Your heart does! Bu-bump bu-bump! It's like music. Plus, Otou-san doesn't believe me when I say there's a monster chasing me, but I know nii-san does. Nii-san will protect me… he always does…_

It was ironic how Sasuke crawled and huddled close to his older brother at night, asking Itachi to protect him from his own scary dreams, when it should had been the other way around. Itachi was the one who needed solace, and his younger brother shined the light he had needed to instantly send the darkness hissing and retreating, because Sasuke was the key that unlocked Itachi's inner peace, and Sasuke was the one to give his brother's illusion back. His dreams back, because love existed then and there.

Sasuke then became the one person who's Itachi's life was devoted to, the one person who had kept Itachi from slipping, and the one person who could push him off with a single push. The one person whose mere existence became Itachi's sole purpose in living.

So when the boy disappeared, the darkness came retaliating back full force, more so than any images of violence, poverty, and war could have ever fueled it. Sasuke became the one who drove Itachi to madness, the snake that slithered into his subconscious, and the cause for the nightmares to grow and bloom more brilliantly than ever, as _Sasuke _turned into the source of pain and misery.

His brother's voice would never drown in those nightmares, even continuing to echo when Itachi awakened, because Sasuke was where his subconscious and conscious met.

Where dark and light clashed.

Where illusions and reality merged…

"You're finally awake."

* * *

The voice didn't yet register. Itachi's consciousness slowly resurfaced, flowing from loose conceptions to fragmented abstractions until physical pain overwhelmed all other thoughts.

Itachi buried the side of his face into the pillow and leaned his weight on one side, breathing heavily. Shrinking, he pulled his body in and curled against the sheets, one arm grabbing the opposite shoulder to suppress the shivering. He would have thought he'd be used to this by now…

Every inch of his body was surging signals to his brain. His throat was constricted and coarse. His eyes were stinging and dry. His nails were dug deep into his flesh, trying to numb the stabbing pangs deep inside his abdomen.

Then there was the nauseating heat, waves of it escaping into the air only to course back into him more scalding then before.

The heat was suffocating.

Unbearable.

It made Itachi sick, until suddenly, a freezing touch dispersed all the bloated warmth. His entire body uncoiled and released the tensions, allowing the pain to wash through. The cool hand on his forehead soothed away enough heat for some clarity of mind.

Itachi's eyes opened accordingly, letting the hazy and blurred visage gradually come into view. In the mass of black and grey, only one thing caught his attention. The glowing red that undeniably was the sharingan. Memories swirled back to him as Itachi recalled the previous days… Or perhaps longer than that, he didn't know nor care.

The cold touch lifted.

Automatically, Itachi grabbed the person's wrist in time, weakly holding onto it for dear life. The quick movement caused another spasm of pain to course through him, but Itachi did not let go.

Not this time.

* * *

Sasuke was mildly impressed by how well the other endured pain. No screams, no cries, not even a whimper or any other pathetic noise. In fact, past the initial tremors, his brother did little to indicate the true condition of his body. Itachi had kept his face void of emotion as he stared back at him, his hand preventing Sasuke's from leaving. It caused Sasuke to raise an eyebrow, not expecting his brother to be able to move at all.

No one would have guessed that the man on the bed was a State prisoner, much less one that had undergone surgery a mere forty-eight hours ago and came back with a body wrecked beyond repair.

Still, Sasuke saw the small things that gave it away. The uncontrolled heart beats that his sharp ears immediately picked up, the jagged and uneven breaths, the beads of sweat rolling down, the haze of confusion and dizziness… all of those plus the raging fever told him that Itachi was far from well.

Of course, with access to a cabinet full of narcotics, the captain could easily numb all of it away. But he found watching his brother straining to keep consciousness far too entertaining.

Sasuke twisted his hand and slapped the grip away, only to find his wrist locked again. Fingers had swiveled quite elegantly to prevent the captain from leaving. Displeased, Sasuke sent a surge of electricity down his arm, but even as he increased the intensity of the discharges, Itachi still desperately clung to him.

Sneering, Sasuke jerked his own hand away with brute force before it glowed and caused the other third degree burns. Finally, those fingers retreated.

His brother was bold, he'll give him that. No one had dared to touch him.

No one.

From his chair besides the bed, Sasuke examined his palm for a minute, letting the electricity dim down. Once the crackling stopped, he shifted his attention towards the small table to his right. He extended his arm and reached for the dark porcelain pot and cup resting on top of the mahogany.

"You are going to be hospitalized again if you continue to move against your body's will," he commented when he heard shuffling of the bed sheets. From his peripheral vision, he watched Itachi slowly force himself upright, the white yukata he was dressed in slipping down his shoulder in the process. His brother must still be in a daze, the overwhelming shinobi instincts to escape taking over all else, regardless of body's aching condition. Just like the animals trapped in cages.

But the only exit in the dark room was a lone door, and Sasuke would be surprised if the other could even sit upright, let alone stand. Not only that, they were a hundred feet under the dirt that paved the old Uchiha complex, within a maze of catacombs constructed in case of Iwa air bombs. Even the graves of the deceased were above the room's ceilings.

And if the prisoner broke free of the chakra restraints on the room, somehow miraculously slipped past him, the captain -not likely-, opened the door without being paralyzed, had the strength to run, somehow figured out the location of the place, and finally still had enough chakra perform a teleportation or time-space… the State still laid ahead. And no one went in or out of the barriers of the State of Konoha without permission.

Escape really was an impossibility.

So, the captain had no concerns as he remained calmly seated in his chair. "You would not want that," he continued, pouring the murky contents out and swirling the cup to release the gas vapor. "Twelve million ryou was spent on guaranteeing your welfare."

All movements suddenly stopped.

So the other was listening.

"Surprised?" Sasuke chuckled, "you have no idea how _dearly _the State missed you, and Danzou-sama was quite generous to repay you for your services all those years ago."

After that last sentence, Itachi could no longer hold his silence.

"You… know-?" Itachi croaked, dry, cracked words escaping before a violent cough broke out, causing Sasuke to drop his grin.

Frowning, Sasuke turned to see his brother clasping both hands over his mouth, his eyes screwed shut, as he hacked his lungs out. Sasuke waited, his own hand still swirling the cup in his hands, but Itachi did not stop. The coughing continually worsened until he noticed his elder brother could barely breathe anymore, his body racking feebly from the exertion.

The shudders coursed down, and Itachi pulled himself closer, unable to stop coughing and burning his lungs away.

This was too pathetic.

The Akatsuki was not this weak nor was a former Root operative. Neither was a user worthy of the sharingan, and certainly, not anyone who shared his blood.

Sasuke's patience worn thinner and thinner until…

Without warning, Sasuke slammed his hand down on his brother's chest, pushing him against the headboard of the bed. The force knocked whatever air was in those lungs, and tiny droplets of blood and phlegm splattered on the white bed sheets. Ignoring small stains, Sasuke clawed his hand against the other's throat, jolting it numb.

"Did you not hear what I just said?" the captain hissed, tightening his grip. "You will _not _return to that pathetic state we found you in, and you will _not _waste my time."

When the last of the cracking static ceased, the coughing stopped. Releasing his hold, Sasuke shoved the cup in front of his brother's face.

"Drink," he commanded as he placed the rim near Itachi's lips. Sasuke couldn't read the transient flicker of emotions on the other's face nor did he care, only pressing the cup closer. All that mattered at the moment was ensuring his brother's health, or all that time, energy, and money would have gone to waste.

Unfocused, grey eyes finally stopped staring at him and veered towards the object in front. But Itachi didn't take the cup. His eyelids hanged low, his heart rate more erratic than before as blood was pumped to maintain the unstable body. Itachi had wrapped his arms around his own waist, his nails buried deep into his flesh to numb the flaming pain inside, but it did nothing, and his breath only became more ragged, his vision more clouded. Plus, his face was flushed, the raging fever taking more of a toll than everything else combined.

Sasuke saw the other was too drained to stay awake any longer. He was losing him.

Controlling his irritation, Sasuke slammed his brother's head against the headboard and tilted his chin up. Trickles of black dripped and stained the yukata as Sasuke forced vaporizing liquid down his brother's throat.

When all of the liquid was gone, Sasuke slammed the cup down on the mahogany and snapped shut his brother's jaw. He kept his hand there until he heard swallowing.

The liquid had an instant effect. The pain was not subdued, but the heat was gone, as if sucked away. Itachi released the tensions in his shoulders and exhaled, noticing the fog that left his breath. He no longer felt as if he was burned alive anymore, but the air around him suddenly became far more piercing cold. Plus, the dryness within his throat was replaced by a painful sting, but compared to the rest of his body, that was negligible.

He could handle this.

Itachi made no complaints as the other person tossed him aside on the bed and walked away. He only listened to the clicks and thuds of the empty porcelain being placed away. Then, footsteps, which walked further and further away towards the other end of the room.

Further and further away… or closer?

Closing his eyes, Itachi forced away the blurs of disorientated thoughts. The soft noises around the room echoed loudly in his mind, and he was losing contact with reality with every heart beat. When he reopened his eyes, all sounds stopped. His pupils dilated in the fluttering candlelit room, yet nothing came more than blurs of grey. Although he could feel the familiar presence, he couldn't see.

For once, he dearly wanted his sight back, if only for a second. Itachi wanted to see who was the other person in the room with him, the one who leaned down and placed a hand on his forehead again.

"Hmm, so it worked…" The person was so close; his chakra could be sensed, his breath could be felt.

The touch, the voice, the very essence of the person's being caused Itachi's heart to quicken, as if it had already recognized what his brain couldn't. The doubt had diminished, and it was sure the one in the room was Sasuke. Who the person was now, what that person had become, how an innocent child had turned into this ruthless shinobi, and why didn't matter. All that mattered was that through some sort of blind, misguided fate, he had found Sasuke, and his heart would continue to pound in a state of ecstasy because of it.

And, for a brief moment, Itachi had fully accepted that fact, causing an immediate tightening within his chest, and if he could, he would cease the opportunity to wrap his arms around hold the person close and never let go. Press him tight against his heart for confirmation, close his eyes for a minute, and let this surge of unfamiliar and indescribable sensations course through him.

A sensation that was so warm and swelling that came from deep inside him, a sensation Itachi had lived so long without, he couldn't identify it. If he hadn't long lost his ability to cry, he would have done so. If he hadn't lost his ability to smile, he would have as well.

Smile…

Was this… happiness?

Out of sheer will power, Itachi lifted his hand and shakily reached into the darkness in front of him. When his fingers made the lightest contact with skin, he felt the other immediately grab his wrist and send charges of lightning at him.

Itachi ignored the crushing grip and brushed his fingers lightly down the person's face. The cheek, the nose, the lips, the chin…

There was a sharp snap, and his hand was tossed aside. But Itachi had captured enough of the person's face -his brother's face- to care.

He felt the same cold breath upon him again, hissing. "What are you trying to pull?"

At this, Itachi could only close his eyes and smile. His heart was now at peace, yet the strange feeling was still there. It was still here as he fell back to amongst the sheets and his mind fogged over.

"God forbade me from ever seeing my little brother again because of what I've done…" he whispered softly. "He even took my sight away from me as punishment."

Consciousness slowly slipped from him again, but not before his last words could escape.

"But… I defied His orders. I wanted to see what you look like when you've grown up, Sasuke."


	7. VI

The candles' glow expanded and contracted to the concentrated chakra in the air. Wherever the chakra flowed, the fire pulled in that direction, but its leash prevented it from ever touching the source of the beautiful radiation. And when chakra flared, the glow burst with fiery life, illuminating the expanse of the stone walls. But when it was calm and controlled, as it was now, the fire dimmed as well, weak and tamed.

The light reflected few things in the room: the cabinets, the waxed desk, the pile of scrolls, a jar of ink. Everything else was beyond its reach, and barely could anyone make out the contours of the bed or the silhouettes of the servants, who immediately fell to their knees when the door clicked open. The candles suddenly brightened tremendously, revealing a row of frightened girls.

After a single glance to assure everything was in order, the host dismissed them all with a wave of his hand. The servants automatically stood up and filed away with their breaths caught in their throat, leaving the host and his two guests alone. Upon exiting, one of the servants, blonde, lithe, young, felt herself trembling from the malicious presence of one of the guests.

_That aura…_

"As requested, the most luxurious suite modified to your command: one bedroom, one study, one bathroom, no dining room, no kitchen. Traditional style, western finishes. "

The host, a light-haired, sharply-featured man in his thirties, turned to the masked man and the woman in the man's arms, eagerly anticipating their reactions. To his disappointment, neither showed even the slightest delight in the _expensive_ décor, the meticulously wiped _wooden _floors, nor the light and pleasant scent in the _fresh _air. A suite like this was reserved for _royalty_, and to the people above, groveling in their filth and smog, this was a room worth _dying _for.

As the masked man vanished and set the woman on the bed – the _finest _silk in the entire country, the host would insist –, the host eyed them closely, trying to see why they appear so indifferent. The man held a frighteningly strong chakra, and along with his Root mask, he obviously was in the high elites. If so, he could just be used to this kind of luxury – lucky bastard, the host bitterly thought. The woman, on the other hand, seemed to be no one special, so she should be having an expression of pure awe at the richness of the place. But no, she refused to even look up at the beauty around her, her hair hiding her face away from view.

"Anything to your dissatisfaction?" the host finally questioned, unable to stand the silence anymore. When the wife of the feudal lord had stayed in this room, she had squealed in joy and nearly gone mad, rubbing the silk covers against her tearing face and moaning about how much she missed fabrics like it.

But these two… nothing.

"Anything?" the masked man repeated the question to the woman, his voice smooth and velvety.

A young gentleman with quite some confidence, the host concluded. No older than early twenties. This information might be useful later when it comes to entert—

"No."

The whisper was nearly inaudible, but the host caught it, and his eyes instantly landed back on the woman again… no, not a woman. It was man, and shocked, the host forgotten his next line of words.

The long hair had swept to the side when the person raised his head, revealing the most beautiful face he had ever came upon, with grey eyes framed by long lashes, delicately arched chin and jaw, and softly curved lips. The skin was blemished, with several healed lacerations, but they didn't detract from his original beauty, merely made the masculine face weak and feminine.

No wonder no one gave a damn about the room… the presence of this person sent this room to shame; tacky at best, disgraceful at worse.

The masked man pretended to not notice the unabashed gawking of their pathetic host, who seemed to suddenly have a perspiring problem, worsening the already distasteful stench in this room. The perfume sprayed here was utterly disgusting and practically indistinguishable from cat urine, but of course, he could easily hide his displeasure.

"I do."

"W-what?" The host turned his attention to the masked man, but he couldn't control himself and his eyes kept flickering back the person on the bed, his tongue cramped down in the back of his dry throat. _A white yukata, a single layer… how easy to undress him…_

"How does the ventilation work here?" was the innocent question.

The host broke out of his trace and hoped the man did not notice. "O-oh. At the juncture of the wall and ceiling are several vents, where purified air is sent in."

"From the outside?"

"God, not that filth. The air fresh mountain air, fifty kilometers from here, which also undergoes several filters and is blown here by powerful machines."

"Can anything get… in?"

So the young man was another paranoid shinobi. Cakewalk then, the host snickered in his mind, having seen too many of these kind of soldiers to know exactly what they were like.

"Impossible," he proudly answered. "Not even the smallest Aburame bug can fit in, and if there is any kind of poisonous gas, it would be immediately detected by the filters and eliminated. Your safety and privacy are one hundred percent guaranteed."

"What are the curtains for," the masked man asked, continuing to play ignorant in front of the host, just to get the little mouse excited.

"Take a look for yourself!" the host exclaimed, glad his guests were finally taking interest in the place.

_The mouse wishes to boast this place and has deluded himself into thinking it belongs to him… how pitiful_.

Nevertheless, the masked man decided to play this charade a little longer, knowing someone else was passively listening to every last word they exchanged. He pulled the curtains aside in one swift motion, and suddenly moonlight flooded into the room. Behind the large window was a blissful night with a galaxy of free floating stars, twinkling above the whispering trees, whose leaves freely wisps past.

"Grand, is it not?" the host asked, his questioned directly towards the beauty on the bed.

The person made no comment, did not even glance up towards the magnificent moon illuminating on his face, and certainly paid the host no attention.

However, the host had all his attention on him back, so much that he did not even notice mist beginning to shroud the moon and the trees outside turning to nothing but kindle. Only until there was the war cry of an eagle outside did he jerked his head towards the window and the humanoid silhouette standing in front of it. The large predator bird flew past the now barren landscape, fire crackling maliciously over the millions of bloodied bodies, mutated and mangled.

The image had the host wide eyed and weak-kneed, nearly shrieking when fingerless hands began to pound on the window pane and gruesome figures, rotten and toothless, attacked the glass to get in.

"Yes, quite grand," the masked man purposely answered, his eyes returning to its natural color, and the illusion disappeared, a solid stone wall standing in its place.

_Such a low leveled genjutsu, what an insult. _

Pacing back towards the bed, he told the host, "I believe we have seen enough…" _Your whole existence is an eyesore... _"You may leave now." _Go before I crush you to pieces…_

At this, the host broke out of his shock, jumped to his toes, and sleazily rubbed his hands. Greed was evident in his eyes, and now was the perfect opportunity to discuss _prices. _"Of course, so I assume you will take the suite! How long will—"

"Five months… more or less."

The host choked on his own saliva. _F-f-five MONTHS…_? "I'm sorry sir, I might have misheard but did you say—"

"You did not."

"B-but that's over t-thirty m-m-million ryou—"

"Then take sixty." Without further word, a bag of gold coins was dropped in the host's hands, along with a parchment paper.

The gold was authentic, enough for a whole month, but it was paper that froze the host. On it were two seals. One from the State Bank and the other…

_The dictator's seal? This is… this is…_

"A blank check," the masked man said curtly, removing the last of the host's doubts. The last of his patience was becoming thread thin and if the mouse did not go back to its little hovel of a hole, there would be his blood and filthy stench in their new room.

"Oh! Oh, oh my. This is my… our… greatest honor to… to be…"

The candles in the room began to ignite furiously, towering taller and brighter than before, but the host did not notice the warning. The masked man felt his hand twitch and disappeared, interrupting the host's babble. Suddenly, there was a breeze, and the host spun around to see the door courteously opened for him.

"T-thank you! Please, please, enjoy your stay and… and…" His eyes landed on the person the bed again, on his lips, to his neck, his shoulders… "It's a pleasure," he finished.

There was a dangerous discharge of lightning that crawled along the frame of the door.

"The pleasure is ours."

Within a millisecond, the host found he was in the underground hallways, the electricity-charged metal door shut a needle thin away from his crooked nose.

* * *

Porcelain clicked as the mask was laid on the table, exposing a pale face to the candlelight. The fire ate hungrily at the man's chakra, wide and rabid. He stared back at the flames, his black orbs reflecting the flickering light before shifting to the other person.

"Without the little mouse, this place is quite… quaint, would you not agree…?"

Sasuke walked across the room, his peripheral vision capturing every detail of the room, so that not even an insect or chakra string could hide its presence for long, and finally stopped besides the bed. He trailed his fingers down the white satin of the bed sheets, creating a thin, luscious sound, and stared into the other's eyes.

"Smooth, isn't it?"

Itachi made eye contact but said nothing.

"And the air… it's clean and light. There is no chakra suppressor in this room; your breaths are not strained," Sasuke continued, his fingers leaving the satin and landing on brother's jaw, gliding along the contours and feeling the soft skin. The satin dulled in comparison, becoming dry and prickly.

"Currently, you feel no pain." And that was true as well. Not since Itachi was a child had he been in such a blank state, a state so unfamiliar and surreal to him that it was almost terrifying. Every failed breath, every aching bone, every burn, sting, throb, it was all to remind him he shouldn't be alive. Life was an associate of pain, always had been; death was not.

Closing his eyes, Itachi let the cool fingers trail down his face. He hadn't had any real physical contact in years, none that weren't attacks on his life. But even after so long, he hadn't forgotten the distinctive touch of his little brother… the same touch now. Curious… tender… even lov-

Itachi wished he could delude himself forever. His eyes opened, unfocused yet penetrating. "Why are you doing this."

Sasuke stopped for a moment, unable to comprehend the question, his playful fingers suspended.

Why?

… Was there ever a need for a _why_?

He recovered.

"Hmm, why not?" If the other wanted an answer, he would gladly comply to keep him satisfied. Anything to keep him satisfied. He had orders, after all. His fingertips brushed away, but he never lost the honey in his voice. "You used to be one Danzou's most valued soldiers. This is simply his reward to you."

Itachi retained his silence, waiting, waiting for the truth.

"Why else would he pull you out from interrogation?"

No response.

"It must have been due to a mistake."

Itachi still waited.

Sasuke chuckled. "You don't believe me."

Only a fool would, they simultaneously thought, both knowing this little display was over before it ever began. Sasuke had no intention of further selling this transparent lie, and Itachi had no intention of buying it.

"Danzou…" The very name was said with bitterness. "Danzou would love nothing more than to have me dead. What is the true reason I am kept alive."

The degree of boldness and strength behind each question was increasing, Sasuke observed. He found his lips curving upwards in delight, wondering why that was the case. Could it be his prisoner's physical health was returning? That he was slowly forgetting his proper place? Or… perhaps after a few days with him, he was getting webbed in by the tiny threads of _trust_. Unlike the week of brutal torture in the dungeons, these days were rather… peaceful. Sasuke hadn't dealt any major injuries to him, hadn't given him anything but sugared-coated words and plain courtesy, and even doused his pain away with drugs.

Whatever it was, his brother showed no fear of him. Modicums of caution and skepticism, maybe, but past that, he had been utterly calm and docile.

Waiting… just waiting.

"Let's just say... Danzou is quite persistent," Sasuke finally answered. "It is not every day we capture an Akatsuki, and we will do whatever it takes to get the information we need."

His brother was neither surprised nor deceived by the simple, yet logical, explanation. There was something left unsaid, some other purpose, and while Itachi knew of its presence, he did not know what it was. But it became clear with the treading silence that if he ever did, it would not be now. So instead, he averted his gaze.

"He wishes to bribe me, then?" Itachi softly questioned. "By presenting me with this room, with this body, with you." He paused, letting the sudden tightness in his chest loosen. "It must have been days now… Is it safe to assume you are the new interrogator?"

More boldness. Sasuke grinned, amused. "If you want to put it that way, yes," he breezily replied. "For the next five months, I am the sole person in charge of you. Who I am will vary on your cooperation. Just like this room can be either paradise or hell, I can be your guard or jailer."

"And after five months?"

"Your fate is out of my hands. I guarantee you neither life nor death."

Itachi closed his eyes. "Is that so..."

In the following silence, Sasuke gave his prisoner the time to contemplate his options. He glided over the cabinets and elegantly brushed his hands over the mahogany. Each one unlocked accordingly, and he was pleased to find everything was supplied, from calligraphy brushes to chakra pills to packets of tea leaves.

With one fleeting glance, he absorbed every last detail, memorized the suit behind each card – food and medicine, books and parchment, spare military weapons. Only the end cabinet revealed something of interest though, as an entire assortment of glass bottles aligned together to give the captain a cheeky, multicolored smile.

"Do choose wisely," he advised, chuckling, his index finger tracing the patterns from one glass bottle to the next. "The Foundation is based on a punishment-reward system. Betray us and die, accept us and live." He stopped at one particular vial, switched his vision to his prisoner, and slanted his head. "Or, in your case, keep your silence and suffer, talk and live in luxury."

He deprived the shelf one of its many colorful teeth, uncapped the vial, and swirled the contexts, inhaling the rich aroma of the therapeutic oil. He grinned. "And it'd be a waste to not enjoy yourself while you can."

That said, Sasuke didn't expect his brother to be tempted by these simple indulgences, but he did relish the idea of torturing him with the possibility of having them at all; that somewhere within this pit of hell Itachi had fallen into, there was some safe haven at the very end.

He returned the vial to its shelf and sampled the next tonic, keeping himself busy. "After all, there is no escape from here. We are kilometers underground, and the tunnel system is so intricate, time-space is the only way to resurface…"

The oil was stronger than he expected, masking the impure stench of the room, much to his pleasure. And as the oil continued to permeate the room, the disgusting floral odor was dominated by the earthy, semi-sweet, and refreshingly crisp scent. Briefly, he mulled over this, as the smell was very reminiscent of…

A snake.

The label confirmed his suspicions: a perfume that acted as snakebite medicine. He stowed the vial away, and along with it, the pleasant memory of his mission in Otogakure.

"And I'm afraid the chakra net only allows authorized individuals to warp out," he continued, dallying with a small black jar next.

After giving the hellebore its moment of appreciation – the delicate rose-like flower _did_ eradicate an entire village for them – he tucked it away as well. There was no need to poison his prisoner.

Deciding that he gave enough time, he found what he wanted, slid the cabinets close, and made his way back to the bed.

"So why make your life any more difficult than it has been?" he lulled, darkly, sweetly, laced with temptation. "What happens on the surface won't affect you now. You are now in a separate world, a limbo where anything you want can be delivered to you on a golden platter. All for a Few. Simple. Words." His breath was grazed past his brother's ear, because even if the other can't _see_ their close proximity, it would be heard, it would be felt, and it gave no further opportunities for delays. No more time, no more distance. Sasuke wanted his answer _now_, and whatever that may be, he could then act upon it accordingly.

Then there was stillness, as there would be calm before the storm, followed by a subtle shift in weight, as Itachi averted away and in a strained voice, whispered, "Danzou cannot give me anything I want."

"Nothing?" Sasuke persisted, leaning in, sliding closer, and adroitly positioning himself in a way that locked the other from shying away. "You can no longer see, but you can still hear beautiful music. You can no longer eat, but you can still feel the comfort of a warm bath. Rather than rotting away in the dungeons, I am offering you sybaritic lavishness."

Itachi greeted these offers with a cold shoulder and continued to mentally distance himself, because while every single cell in his body screamed in terror at the thought of returning to the torture chambers, he had also trained himself to be deaf to all of it. Even so, his resolve had already been weakened, and he knew the longer he was in this condition, the longer he grew accustomed to this foreign bliss, the more difficult it would be to let it go… to let Sasuke go.

That was when Itachi realized the cause of break in his willpower: he _couldn't _let go, not when what he had been given a taste of what he'd been starving for.

It was disturbing how quickly Itachi came into full acceptance of his brother, a refined monster, fully conscious of thought, brilliantly calculating and analytical, cruel and heartless. After a decade of negligence and hate, betrayal and violence, Sasuke was molded into exactly what was expected of him, and after his own decade of pain and defeat, illness and longing, Itachi both anticipated and embraced that very monster.

To him, his brother was alive, healthy, and safe that was all that mattered to him in the end. All he saw was Sasuke, and he was willing to be blind to his murders, his crimes, his cruelty, his sins, because the very nature of Sasuke was a result Itachi's own sin, own mistake. He was staring into an abyss, and the abyss was staring back, anxiously waiting for the slip and fall, when desire became the center of gravity, and sense and reason crumbled away.

Danzou played his cards well. Too well. A few days was all it took to set this dangerous trap, and Itachi needed to escape before it was too late. If it wasn't already too late.

"There has to be something," Sasuke purred, slithering closer until his body pressed against his brothers, his arm now securing the last remaining opening. "The flesh of a woman?"

Itachi clasped the sheets, backed into the headboard, his lips locked tight. He needed to get out…

With his free hand, Sasuke forced his brother to face him, but the other merely dropped his gaze, refusing to acknowledge him.

"A man?" the captain breathed, mere inches away, his tongue dancing playfully against his own lips in anticipation.

Hands clutched harder to the fabric, and Itachi felt his heart betraying him, beginning to gain momentum. The instinct to run was overwhelming, and he could feel his control on his own body faltering again.

"What is it you want?" Sasuke whispered, letting his breath trail up his prey's neck. He tilted his head and stopped a hair away, his eyes gleaming. "Could it be…"

The erratic beat resonated lovingly.

"..._Me_."

* * *

When he crushed his lips crushed into Itachi's, the last thing Sasuke expected was resistance. Instead, he predicted the shock and horror in Itachi's eyes, the stiffness of a body that had grown utterly numb, the temporarily moment in which time stopped long enough for him to take advantage and advance deeper without protest.

He had enough of waiting. He had wanted to do this the moment he captured his prey, but the State and their lousy interrogation division got in the way, then the pathetic medical squad, and even he restrained himself for days out of his own interests.

Everything so far had been nothing but a game, one he created because one particular piece intrigued him. Enough to thoroughly examined and unscramble this prisoner's character.

Originally, Sasuke planned to get his answers by force, but then he noticed how his mere presence could flicker on the light in the other's eyes, could capture his breath and leave him hanging on a thread, could make him bend so easily to his will, all without the installation of fear and terror. It was a different kind of power, a dangerous one that he only experimented with once before, and he had been craving to have it again.

And if his conclusions were correct, he would have his prisoner submit to him within an hour. This wasn't about the State, this had nothing to do with Danzou, nothing to do with the war. This was about the contract that he signed in his own blood years, years ago, in which he was guaranteed _anything_ he wanted in exchange for his service. He did not lie about the punishment-reward system, and as of now, he was receiving his reward, a pretty pretty little doll that was going to fill in the vacant spot created years ago by a beast even more vicious and untamed than him.

Sasuke rampaged into the other's mouth, going deeper, his tongue searching wildly for something delicious. And then there was a burst of metallic flavor, as Itachi finally reacted and bit down on his tongue, and Sasuke tore at Itachi lips in return. Their blood mixed together to create an exotic wine, but Sasuke had barely gotten his fill when his aghast brother managed to finally regain control of himself. And with one swift, elegant motion, the bed sheets were pulled from under both of them, displacing the captain long enough for his prey to escape his clutches. Itachi was gone the second the satin of white billowed down.

No, he hadn't expected resistance, but it came as a pleasant surprise, him not having met anyone who could for a _long_, long time. Not since his last trophy.

"I wouldn't exert myself, if I were you," Sasuke teasingly cautioned, tracing the tip of his finger against his lips and licking the blood. "The drugs are composed of chakra that binds to your nerves and suppresses pain. The more energy you waste, the faster that chakra becomes depleted, and…" He turned around to face the door, watching as his brother collapsed to his knees, shaking uncontrollably. "The quicker the pain returns."

But Itachi ignored him, kept trying to break through the barrier to the outside, his hand weakly pressing against a door that viciously discharged lightning back.

"Did I not say earlier that there is no escape?" the captain taunted, enjoying the other's futile attempt to escape, escape this room, escape Sasuke's desires, escape Hell, but the door would remain bolted shut, and the jolting lightning would continue to bite at Itachi's skin.

But Itachi kneeled in front of the door, letting shocks rampage through him as he tried to draw the last of his chakra, in hopes he would be free, in hopes that God would grant him one last undeserving mercy.

But his deity refused to listen to his plea and walked away, while the devil smirked and strutted forward.

"I suggest you stop resisting," Sasuke chuckled, placing a single hand on his brother's shoulder and feeling him stiffen under his touch, the reaction now completely opposite from before, when contact was allowed, was almost welcomed.

Not anymore.

The hand weakly slid down the door, the charges of electricity aggressively attacking as it did, and finally went limp.

"Don't touch me."

The words echoed hollowly, low and dangerous, but Sasuke did not take warnings, much less commands, Without the slightest hesitation, he roughly yanked his brother around. The force was enough to send the other colliding with the floors, and he passively watched skin scrape along the wood and bruises begin to form.

Itachi used the opportunity to flicker away, on his feet once more a few meters away.

Briefly, Sasuke wondered how long the other could keep up the useless act. To anyone else, his brother appeared poised, but to him, it was easy to catch the shallow breaths, the slight tremble, the erratic heartbeat of trapped prey. There would not be a fight.

He approached slowly; Itachi back away, one steady step after another until there was a small falter in his movements.

"What are you going to do," he asked when Itachi suddenly brought a hand to his chest, and the thumping became even more acute, breaths even more shallow. Finally, his brother felt the wall behind him and stopped, leaning back and clutching his middle. His legs gave out and he slid down. The pain was back.

"What can you do." Sasuke stopped in front of him and tilted his head, watching the lovely trail of blood from those abused lips, the shoulder peeking out from where the yukata fell, the numb feet that became too weak even stand up.

Itachi finally looked up, feeling the other's dominating chakra leak out, hostile and sinister, yet so well controlled.

But even in this state, Itachi knew there was still something he could do, and his eyes were already stinging in anticipation. There was no longer the restraint on him that limited the amount chakra he could gain or lose. He could force out the last of his chakra sustaining his life. He could already see the black flames burning, a small flicker at first on Sasuke's shoulder, then furiously bursting into life and consuming the entire body. He could drag this monster down with him.

But he couldn't, couldn't activate the Sharingan, couldn't summon Amaterasu.

"Sasuke," he managed to whisper, but Sasuke had waited long enough.


	8. VII

In a single yank and shove, Itachi landed prone on the floor, just short of the bed. The collision was solid, hard, and almost clumsy, but his sharp reflexes helped minimize the damage and avoid a full force to head. However, the movement also triggered more nerves, and it wasn't long till he felt the equivalent of twenty swords piercing into him from every angle, all swift, sharp, and immobilizing.

It took all of his willpower to reach out a shaking hand and clutch onto the edge of the frame of the bed, trying to support himself up, when he heard straps being unbuckled.

The metal arm guards were recklessly tossed aside, followed by the heavy fabrics of a scarf and cloak. Sasuke's intention was painfully clear.

"Even if Danzou has nothing you want, I'm sorry to say you have something _I _very much do, dear brother," Sasuke chuckled, examining his prey with delight. "Try not to be too difficult."

Itachi forced his eyes shut and suppressed everything – the screams of his body, the mourning of his heart, the footsteps of his brother – compressing and burying any and all hindrances that would stop him from logically reasoning a solution out.

He needed to _get out_.

And for the briefest moment, Death seemed to have finally caught up, gliding before his victim with a sickeningly sweet smile. His soulless gaze was focused deeply on attracting the cold, calculating, shell of a little boy, the boy that had been running after him all those years ago. Or perhaps the better choice was to appeal to Itachi's more humane side, as he offered a courteous, gentlemanly hand to his fair maiden, within his ghostly palm a promise of a smile and a laughter, of sunsets by the porch and halcyon days, of an eternity of reunification with the child still looking for his older brother.

But before Death's negotiations came through, another hand seized his prey, one that left Itachi wide-eyed and numb and _caught_, a heart was more vibrant with life than ever, pounding in dread and anguish, as Sasuke violently pulled Itachi upright.

Death was forced to vanish in an angry hiss.

The debt would be collected, but only the day Itachi relinquished his love for that precious someone in the living world. That was not today, even as Itachi felt the obi was stripped from him in a forceful motion, as he was tossed back on the bed, skin bathed in the candlelight for Sasuke to sickly indulge in.

There was no out.

Itachi had neither the will nor strength to separate from Sasuke, not again, not when his entire being was purely devoted to Sasuke, kneeling for days in front of altars until his body was on the verge of fainting from thirst and fatigue. Itachi didn't deserve forgiveness, didn't deserve salvation, but he would offer his flesh, blood, and soul if only the gods permitted him to find his brother and take far, far away. Return Sasuke the life he took away. Just save Sasuke. Just this one person.

Now, Itachi wanted to laugh at his earlier hopes that maybe he still could. He would bleed dry, and it wouldn't be enough. He could give everything, and it wouldn't be enough. Madara himself had gladly reminded him of this day after day of just how _worthless_ Itachi had become, unable to step forward and seize power, unable to go back and cradle the past, unable to stand in the present or even look in a mirror.

Meanwhile, a darker part of Itachi could be equally as cruel, mocking how he should have seen this coming, the day he would destroy his last sense of self and become a personal slave to his brother, because this was the true nature of his so-called love – obsessive, deprived, debased, and abysmal. And as that buried image of Sasuke, glowing with warmth, asleep in his arms, shriveled and died, the gaping hole was filled with empty practicality.

If his foolish attempts for Sasuke's redemption and salvation failed, he could still provide Sasuke pleasure and satisfaction.

His willingness to comply was disgusting, but still less so than the raw desperation that could make Itachi clutch onto Sasuke and give him anything he wanted just to please him, even if the whole world collapsed because of it_. _If he could be with Sasuke again for another day, another hour, another minute, _did anything else matter_.

It was so easy to just let it all fall. Lose sense, lose purpose. He only needed apathy and amorality to let it all fall to oblivion, and if the world could not pick itself up, then it was at its own fault for investing so much in one flawed, flawed man. History would move on regardless.

The yukata ripped.

Fingernails delicately traced Itachi's face along the cheekbone. And while Sasuke was still mostly dressed, Itachi was completely exposed beneath him, restrained still past the hitched breaths and deep, deep beats, one hand tightly clawing into the opposite upper arm. Head averted, with bruised lips and eyelids half-mast, focus on anything except the person above him.

If Sasuke was not mistaken, there was a thin glaze of water over those eyes.

This was indeed checkmate.

* * *

His prisoner surrendered. Quick to learn, quick to adapt.

There was almost an air of harmony between them, an invisible contract in which Itachi would accept his fate in exchange for his silence. As for Sasuke, he would never obtain the information for Danzou, but he would get what he wanted without annoying shrills, pathetic endeavors, and overall stupidity. In fact, he had gotten so accustomed to dealing with these nuisances, to find none was a pleasant surprise.

As a reward, maybe he could be gentle, the captain thought, his hand cupped around that blemished face, his thumb stroking the crease under his brother's eye.

In this shadow, enshrouded from the candlelight, they almost resembled two lovers. Maybe he could continue that illusion, and be the one to lean down to Itachi and hush him, kiss him, tell him how everything would be alright. Tell him how beautiful he was.

Maybe he could even whisper how much he loved him.

Maybe.

Or maybe not, as Itachi's face was suddenly snapped to the side, three angry scratches deeply embedded across his cheek, ragged and brimming with red. Sasuke withdrew his talons, watched the other remained absolutely silent and still, forcing a calm under the strike. So poised, so _dignified_.

Sasuke wondered what it would take to break his brother's composure, violently dragging his nails along the underside of Itachi's jaw, ear to chin, tilting it up and granting him access to the full stretch of Itachi's neck. He brushed his lips against the hinge of the jaw, felt the body underneath him tense. Grinning, he left a trail of teasing kisses downwards, following the rhythm of Itachi's heightened pulse.

At the crook of the neck and shoulder, Sasuke dropped the pretense. Without warning, he bit down. Hard. Not just to hurt, to bruise, to mark but to break through the skin and draw blood. And as he rolled his tongue over the delicious flavor, his teeth tore a cluster of similar wounds.

It wasn't enough, as he dug deeper, and his hands yanked his brother's hair, forcing him up. He slammed Itachi against the headboard, and hungrily took his lips again, chuckling at how little resistance he found. Itachi didn't dare bite him this time, didn't bother to squirm away, didn't even try to break for oxygen even as Sasuke drew him higher and higher until his back arched and his only support was the hand clutching the back of his head, the one keeping him firmly in place.

Itachi couldn't breathe, couldn't think. He was too intoxicated with _feeling_, that somewhere high above this burning pain, there was Sasuke's tongue deep within his mouth, Sasuke's hands cutting into his scalp and back, Sasuke's chest pressed against his, and Sasuke's knee sliding higher and higher, forcing his legs apart.

It was as if Sasuke had dug a hand straight into his chest and was now gripping his arteries in a tight fist, each beat now in an erratic metronome of panic and fear, because Itachi knew this would devour him from the inside out, feed and contort on his memories until that blithe laugh was replaced by the chuckle against his lips, that warm embrace by the hand coursing down his spine, that silly nuzzle by the teeth tearing into his skin. His last comfort in the past would become another tormenting shadow of what he had irrefutably lost and would never get back again – his little brother.

But the choked sob to rip through his throat was not from grief, but from shame. Shame that he had allowed this to happen, shame that he was allowing it to continue, shame that, deep inside him, he _wanted_ this. Wanted to be thoughtless and blind, to be taken and used, to be beaten and abused physically and emotionally until everything collapsed. When so defeated and _tired_, there was something undeniably attractive about surrender, to stop struggling, to have all defenses and guards crumble, to have misery swallow him whole, to relinquish all control over himself to someone else.

And if that someone was Sasuke, then it was all fine.

This was purgatory, and Sasuke could hurt him until he could never feel again, destroy him until he could never stand again.

Sasuke broke apart with a laugh, hearing the other's desperate rapid, shallow breaths. He was beginning to understand he was sensing not forced tolerance towards his advances, but restrained _lust _to return them back. Those eyes that looked up at him, eyelids lowered seductively, pupils dilated and entranced. Those lips parted, swollen and coated with blood and saliva that Sasuke found himself licking away.

He kept Itachi's chin up and scooped down for another bite, locking his older brother in place until he was sure he drained every last drop of that sweet, sweet liquid. It should be a sin for his brother to taste this good, he thought, nibbling and sucking with the same ferocity as before, but now parting to the corner of the mouth, then lower to the chin, and the neck again, making each kiss was sharp and painful, hot and wet, all while his hands scraped down the other's chest, to the sides, and stopping at the hips, leaving a path of lacerated skin. His nails sunk in, and a discharge of lightning viciously ate through both of them, spiking up to Itachi's heart and eliciting a surprised gasp. And when Sasuke parted his mouth and glazed his breath over his bites, he detected a shudder, almost a moan.

"Hm, could it be that you _like_ this, dear brother," Sasuke mocked, dragging Itachi back down into the sheets and towering over him, examining the other's excited state, with hands clutching onto the bedsheets, toes curled in anxiety.

His older brother was lost. The contact, the intimacy, it was all too foreign. Itachi's entire body was getting sliced open, as Sasuke buried his fingers deeper and deeper into his hips, slid Itachi down, and forced those legs to spread. With a bit more force, Itachi's pelvic would literally be crushed, but Sasuke restrained that urge, dragged his fingers down to Itachi's outer thighs, across the State's prisoner brand mark, and watched the softer flesh rip. The blood stained his nails, almost like ink.

He was carving a beautiful tattoo into his brother, the way the lines weaved and strangled Itachi's entire body like an attack of serpents, fangs sinking into every inch of skin. Sasuke made sure of it, that after this over, Itachi could not touch a single part of himself without being reminded of this event, of the day Sasuke scripted into his flesh. Itachi would learn what it meant to be _Sasuke's property_.

Suddenly, a small bottle appeared in Sasuke's palm, clear and odorless, unopened and stolen from its home in the cabinets. He glanced down at the body below him, almost mimicking a nonverbal request for permission, and curiously looked to see if his brother reacted any differently, as he poured the viscous liquid onto his fingertips.

The oil dripped down from one finger to the next, then fell onto Itachi's abdomen. Even if Itachi could not see what he was holding, he could definitely feel the liquid, how it warmly oozed down until it made contact with one of the many scrapes Sasuke scarred onto his skin.

Watching Itachi snap shut his eyes, bite down hard on his own lips, soaked in pain and sweat, Sasuke laughed, delighted by show.

"Careful brother," he cooed, "this is poison."

He brushed a wet pinky against the gash across Itachi's hip and thigh, and received a tremble as reward. "And it will give you burns, stings, a sharp, nipping itch that is so unbearable you would rather carve out your own flesh than to endure another second of it. But only when it touches... open wounds..." He buried his finger deep into the injury.

The reaction was just delicious. So beautiful that Sasuke considered depriving his brother of the antidote forever, letting the venom run in his veins until he passed out.

His fingers danced across Itachi's leg, sometimes crossing a gash, sometimes scratching and tingling him down all the way to the toe, before curving back up along the calf and back of the knees. His fingers slowed when they touched the tender skin of Itachi's inner thigh, letting the other tense in anticipation, dwell in fear, plea for him to stop as he added more and more pressure, first lightly scraping, then dragging higher and higher up the leg, digging deeper and deeper, enough to hurt, but not enough to break skin. He stopped when he was at the entrance.

"Are you going to scream, brother?" Sasuke purred, just before he stuck a finger into Itachi, all the way down to the last knuckle. It was too quick, too rough, and Sasuke knew he tore Itachi's insides.

There was no scream, but Itachi's back arched lovingly, his hands desperately seized the bedsheets, and his legs trembled. Each increased in intensity when Sasuke shoved in a second finger and curled both, threatening to completely tear the tissue apart if Itachi made the smallest movement.

Sasuke used his free hand to lean in and grabbed his brother's hair again, now sleek with sweat. His fingers still inside Itachi, he breathed a whisper into his ear. "_Scream for me, dear nii-san._"

Upon hearing those words, Itachi hopelessly sought air, tangled and suspended. He was at Sasuke's complete mercy, trying to relax but tightening instead, trying to still but shaking uncontrollably. And the heat coursing through his body, chemicals rushing through his system, the pain and poison chewing away at him, on top of all his heightened shinobi senses, it became too much. The last of his strength escaped him, and he was too sick, too weak to handle any more.

When Sasuke jerked his fingers free, ripping him, Itachi's head dipped back, releasing a silent cry. A series of muffled sobs escaped, as he suppressed down need to call out Sasuke's name over and over again in a chant, begging for him to stop this, to spare him, to end the torture.

Please, just stop toying with him like this, making him feel every touch, every bite, every scratch.

Please, just stop bleeding his heart like this, filling him to the core with need, want, love, hate, and pure, pure _hurt._

Please, just take him, just fuck him. Violate him, dirty him, corrupt him. Make him numb.

Please, anything, just _end this_.

Itachi was far too breathtaking when this blinded, flushed, and _desperate_, aroused even through the abuse and humiliation.

Sasuke reached at his limit as well.

When Sasuke mercilessly penetrated his brother, he made sure each thrust was deep and agonizing. It was absolutely beautiful, how he was surrounded by pleasure, feeling Itachi contract and pulse to his every need, warm and tight and prepared to nurture his erection.

Meanwhile, Itachi was engulfed by pain, receiving nothing except excruciating _pain _and scalding, scalding shame, his legs wide and bent, his body given so willingly like an absolute slut. Itachi would not receive one drop of pleasure from this experience, not when he was torn apart, piece by piece, and his whole body was ignited on fire. Not when he desperately clung to the bed sheets, his knuckles turning paler than the cloth itself. Not when his _ever so precious _brother was defiling him like this, clawing away at the last shreds of his sanity.

And even when every part of him shattered, he still tried to bury his tears.

This was ecstasy, this was torture.

Sasuke clawed into Itachi's shoulders and arms when he hit climax, laughed at how his brother served as such a sweet vessel, his body was still craving more. And so, he fucked Itachi again and again, indulging in that body long after Itachi broke apart and gone limp, tears in his eyes and semen and blood pooled at his thighs.

The color merged in with the sheets.

When Sasuke finished, he watched his brother, fully fallen from grace. With a smile, he wiped the liquid from Itachi's thighs, and smeared the red over his brother's face with coated fingers, glazing over the three deep cuts he made earlier. Meanwhile, his thumb stroke over Itachi's lips to paint them with the vile color, letting Itachi taste his beloved brother's seed.

The candlelight danced around them playfully, casting the silhouette of two lovers, nothing more.

And Itachi felt Sasuke caress his face, gentle and soothing.

And Itachi felt Sasuke lean in, and hush him, and whisper words of comfort, that what was done to him was all an act of love. And not hate. Not revenge. Not lust. His little brother was the one person who would never use him like this.

And Itachi felt Sasuke toss him aside and laugh, laugh because Sasuke recognized that look of confusion and anguish and knew he had been right – Itachi had loved him... _still_ loved him, even after being brutally raped.

And Itachi felt his own unsteady hand touch his face, touch the ridges and the blood and the semen, touch a decade of tears trail down his cheek, his eyes swirling with mixed emotions that he no longer held control over.

There was nothing dignified about Itachi anymore, nothing but a whore to be bought and played with, soiled and disgraced, tainted by his own spilled blood.

And he now belonged one hundred percent to Sasuke, claimed from finger to toe.


	9. VIII

It was the beginning of dusk, when the shadows stretched lazily and the landscape became a tricky disorientation of wrong shades and hues. The henge finally dissipated. Black porcelain turned a warm beige in the sunlight, and speckles of shadows from the trees above spotted a uniform of solid grey.

The ANBU member picked up his speed.

It had been nine days since that heavy mist engulfed the northern forests of the State, the air perfumed a metallic stench, the death of an entire ANBU Root squadron. Flesh was shredded, limbs torn off, and heads rolled; it was only a stroke of luck that the ANBU member had concealed his presence in time. It was also through fortune that he was able to plant a seed under the sole of the Akatsuki's shoe and could now follow an equidistant behind, too far to be detected, but close enough to sense the unmistakable signal.

And so, in the following nine days, he traversed through different territories in a dizzying, seemingly aimless zigzag across the country, keeping a precautionary henge by day, and reserving his chakra by night.

Swiftly, he leapt towards the next monstrous tree. The terrain changed yet again, steeper and denser, and they were back in the heavy woods of Fire, near the border once more. When the ANBU felt the Akatsuki stop, he stiffened and suppressed his chakra to extreme lows, merging into the shadows and ceasing all movements, allowing only a chilly breath to escape him. His target did not move; he waited a few minutes longer, before gaining momentum to catch sight of the final destination.

Once within a quarter mile's radius, he stood confused, surrounded by wilderness. The sun still glinted annoying oranges and reds, indicating it was far too early for a break.

Suddenly, something prickly gnawed at his back.

"You know, I'm really pissed at this moment," stated an ominous voice. "I'm lost, I'm tired, and you zombies never seem to give up."

The ANBU slowly turned to find the man's sword aimed directly at him, its chakra snapping and biting menacingly.

Kisame continued, "And to top it all off, I'm late. In almost a decade, Itachi and I have never been late. Now, should I take your chakra, chop off your head, or just _eat you?_"

The ANBU gulped.

* * *

A heavy bowl of ramen was set on the table in the far corners of a crowded bar.

Wisps of steam evaporated in coils, and a hooded figure quietly waited for his meal to cool, gliding his finger around the edge of an empty sake cup in impatience. He focused on the undulating muddy soup with dangerous intensity. And as his fingers looped around the cup quicker and quicker, the liquid in the bowl also spiraled down faster and faster into a hypnotic vortex.

His fingers stopped, and so did the soup, just before any could spill. Deciding to risk burning his tongue over waiting, he snapped apart his chopsticks with a single crack. He frowned when he saw the uneven split at the top, but thought nothing of it and dipped his chopsticks into the hot soup.

His loud slurping contributed to clattering, barks, and music of the noisy bar. A shogi chip was placed down on a wooden board with a click. Teeth ripped away at cloth to bandage a flesh wound. A group piled money in a card game. Two conversed of the weather. Mugs of hot beverages were clacked against one another in cheers and celebrations. A girl entertained a crowd with her flute, filling the place with a melody that blended in with the mirth. A hyper three-legged pup dashed around with the younger children.

Overall, it was a raucous place, but no matter how cramped it was, a waiter maneuvered gracefully from table to table, serving the customers with a gentle smile.

"More ice?" he questioned, presenting a jug of ice and water.

"Naw, it's dang freezing outside. How about beef udon?"

"Anything else?"

"Just make sure the noodles are steaming _hot_," the customer answered with a toothless grin.

"Of course."

The pitcher was carried to the next table. A tall man, scraping granite against the metal of an equally tall sword, looked up when asked the same question. His eyes were narrow, his jaws bandaged, his unclothed torso muscular.

"No," he grunted, then tilted his head over to the empty seat besides him. "Take a break, will you."

The waiter hesitated for a moment, placed the pitcher down on the table, and nodded. "After these last orders-"

But before he could finish, the pitcher nearly toppled over, water threatening to splash out, ice cubes clacking against each other, as the front door slammed open and the entire bar crashed into a halting silence. Even the dog crawled into a corner, while the children hushed.

The wooden floorboards creaked and groaned as a huge figure entered, lugging with him a limp, unmasked ANBU. They stopped in the dead center of the bar. All eyes landed on the pair.

Around the bar, fingers slipped down to weapons, eyes locked on the Akatsuki and the ANBU. A katana was almost drawn, had a hand not clasped around the owner's knuckles and blade's tilt, forcing the weapon down in it's sheath. A woman with long ebony hair shook her head once; she calmly brought a cup of tea to her lips, although her eyes remained cautious.

After a treading, uncomfortably thick silence, a player from the card table finally barked, "Whaddya want?" irritated at the interruption of his game.

"I need to speak with your leader."

Another silence.

Frustrated, the Akatsuki repeated, "Where is he? I know this is the right place."

"What's _that thing_ doing here?" A finger pointed directly at the ANBU.

"Kill him, I don't care. Now, can I or can I not, _speak with the leader_?" Kisame gritted out for the third and final time, uplifting his balled fist and displaying the unmistakable Akatsuki ring adorned on his finger.

The waiter waltzed over to the man. "Whatever you wish to discuss, tell me-"

A hand rose, ceasing his words. Attention automatically flowed towards the person who sent the nonverbal command. Suddenly, the hooded figure hidden in the back curled two fingers, beckoning the Akatsuki in his direction.

"Here," the person said in a husky voice, "anything you wish to tell the leader, you can tell me."

The waiter looked disconcerted. "But-"

"That's enough, Haku," the other interjected, a pair of violent, cat-slit eyes glinting from under the hood, and the waiter quieted. Kisame noticed no one else in the bar objected.

Meanwhile, the figure slowly got up, leaning forward, his hands drumming the edge of the table. His red eyes – wide, curious, judgmental – scrutinized both the Akatsuki and the ANBU, as he mulled over what to do with them. The atmosphere became suffocatingly dense, and the children held their breaths until...

"I'll say," the hooded figure finally snarled, revealing a row of sharp, demonic teeth. "I expected the Akatsuki _Five. Bloody. Days. Ago._"

"Had some hindrances," Kisame muttered, lifting up his captive.

"I'm sure you'll tell me about it while we eat," the figure growled, his hand holding up an emptied bowl towards the waiter. "Including why your partner is not present, and why you have that _idiot_ in your hands."

* * *

Once the hooded figure offered the Akatsuki the opposite seat, all tension in the air dispersed. The silent bar immediately broke into a loud and obnoxious laughter, and everything reverted back to the way it was: the card game, the conversations, the shogi match, the music and barks.

And while the Akatsuki went to talk with the stranger, the ANBU member was tossed aside as compensation, surrounded by a group of missing-nins and thugs. Backed up against a wall, sitting on the floor, hogtied, with his crotch area drenched in highly-combustible sake, the ANBU wondered how on earth he got into this mess.

Oh right. He was confronted by the Mist-nin and was dragged around as a rag doll for two days, because the Akatsuki decided his existence would serve as useful evidence as to why he was tardy. Apparently, putting down his katana, holding his hands up in surrender, and stating _I just want to talk_, wasn't enough, because the next thing he knew, the enormous bandaged sword swung down on him. He _thought _the Akatsuki would hear him out.

In short, he was wrong.

The gang emptied the last of the alcohol onto his pants, and one man, with a sadistic smirk, lifted a cigar from his mouth. He bent down and dangled the burning tip a centimeter from his alcohol soaked pants.

"Alright, you had some nerve to cross into our territory," said the man. "Well, here we are. You going to report us now?"

"No," replied the ANBU, eyeing the cigar with a certain fear.

"Are you sure?" breathed the kunoichi next to him, the one who so brightly devised the sake scheme. With her arms wrapped around his head, she whispered, "Danzou is offering a large sum of money for anyone who reports of missing-nins nowadays."

Her breath tickled his skin. It took his entire focus to utter a "Yes."

"A fireplace..." she insisted in a rather distracting, seductive voice, her fingers crawling up his neck to roam through his hair. "A banquet of food and women... seems like a wonderful offer."

At the insinuation, the ANBU gave a stone-cold glare. "_No_."

"Hmph..."

Without another word, the woman somersaulted back on her feet, energetic and whimsical. Towards the men of the crowd, she flashed a small chip in between her fingers. She threw it in the air and caught it in a fist. "He's clean. No genjutsu, no henge, no hypnosis, no chakra tracers. Even the State's tracker is disabled. Give him a chance, eh boys?"

Surprised, the ANBU discovered the device planted in the back of his ear was gone, while over fifty different jutsus have been secretly doused on him.

With a grunt, the man with the cigar stuck it back in his mouth. "If you say so, Mitarashi."

A beckon from the woman, and the group huddled together in the opposite corner to discuss his future fate. They didn't decide to immediate kill him yet; that was a good sign.

The ANBU sighed in relief, only to jump at the outraged "WHAT!" in the background that didn't seem to disturb anybody in the bar but him.

As he calmed his reflexes, a man slouching in front of the shogi board merely waved the noise off and muttered, "Ignore that. Worry about your upcoming interrogation."

"Uh-huh..." The ANBU muttered, staring at the back of the shogi player, wondering why his voice sounded so oddly familiar, when suddenly, a thought hit him.

"By any chance, are you the Underground Re-"

But before he could finish, across the bar came the "YOU FUCKING RETARD!" followed by the sound of shattering ceramic.

* * *

"WHAT THE HELL DO YOU MEAN YOU _LOST_ _ITACHI_!"

Kisame growled, frowning at the shards digging into his skin. He extracted the pieces, while repeating, "The State got my partner, so I've been commanded to proceed with the deal in his place."

Another tremendous spike of scalding-hot chakra, one on such a scale that Kisame noticed his Samehada squirm in anticipation.

Meanwhile, the other consumed an entire new bowl of ramen in two gulps, roughly wiped his mouth, then slammed the bowl down without mercy, a destructive helix etching the table from where the bowl made impact.

He spat, "Fuck that! Itachi was suppose to seal this one!"

"And now you've got me to do it," Kisame bit back sarcastically. He had reasons to be mad: he was tired, starving, irritably alone, and had been at the end of everyone's rage recently, especially from Pein. But to get yelled at by a violent seventeen year old brat, when he was _suppose_ to be talking to the leader of the Underground Resistance about possibly the second most important alliance in history... well, that shortened his fuse considerably.

What was the brat so outraged about anyways. So maybe Kisame was a less eloquent and diplomatic than his partner, but it wasn't like he said anything vulgar or offense. In fact, he was one of the _better_ negotiators in the organization. With Sasori and Deidara, the latter almost blew himself up to pieces. And with Hidan and Kakuzu, thanks to the former's mouth, they reeked of human barbeque for days. Overall, in a span of two years, only twice did a meeting between the Akatsuki and the Resistance end well_._ One, when the mysterious leader of the Resistance spent a night in Ame; the other when Itachi himself went to speak. Kisame wasn't there that time, preferring to chop a few heads in a town brawl a mile away.

And honestly, he was glad he voted out; he couldn't deal with this person; the U.R. must have some twisted sense of humor to designate a rebellious teenager as their negotiator, with a face and neck marred with tribal tattoos, partial tomoe earrings, and the most outrageous getup – under the ragged brown cloak, Kisame spotted an orange windbreaker over black shirts and pants, and at least three different necklaces dangling off his neck. It was a wonder the bar gave the teenager an iota of respect.

Kicking up his feet and laying muddied military boots right smack middle of the table, said teenager didn't want to deal with the giant dunce head either, who he concluded was six foot five of pure brawl and no brains. He controlled his temper enough for him to think rationally, but when his mind circled back to what the Akatsuki said, his blood boiled, his fist clenched.

"Guess your partner neglected to inform you of anything," the teenager snarled bitterly, leaning back on his chair, his head tilted back. "So like him."

"_Look_, I'm just here to send a formal requisition-"

"To ensure we cooperate. What else is new?" came the coarse, unrefined groan. "I'm so sick of lousy guns, and money, and territory as constant reminders of loyalty, when we all know it don't mean shit."

"Yet you're still demanding payment-" Kisame retorted, rolling his eyes.

"We demanded no _payment_," the teenager growled in disgust.

Kisame felt the drilling headache settling in. "Nothing results of nothing. Fine, no weapons, no money, no land, _what does the U.R. want_," he gritted, taking this one step at a time.

"Nothing you have. You're wasting my time," was the nonchalant response.

Red clouded Kisame's vision, and he had half a mind to put this teen through a vegetable grinder. "Then _why_ I am I _here_?"

The other laughed, and his chair returned to four legs. He rested his face on a fist, stared at the other with lowered eyelids. "That's a good question. Why _are _you here? Shoo-shoo, and next time, come back with_ Itachi_."

"That's it, brat, I'm done talking to you. Where the hell is your leader?"

"Bzzt, the leader has no interest in talking to you. _Don't_ help yourself to a message at the front desk."

Kisame snapped and charged. The teenager reacted equally as fast, chakra bubbling into his clenched fist.

Immediately, a hand caught the blazing red fist, a metal sword blocked the shark skin, as the waiter and the tall gangly man stepped in between the two.

"Please..."

"…Don't."

"Outta my way, Haku!"

"_You_! Back off, Momochi!"

"Stop this nonsense."

"Akatsuki are allies."

Neither side moved.

After what felt like an enormous lapse in time, the fist finally unclenched and left Haku's icy palm, while the sword slowly lifted away from the opposing blade. Although the atmosphere remained thick, Haku dispersed it with an offering of another serving of ramen if they would talk like gentlemen. Mention of food was enough to persuade both negotiators to not tear each other's throat for another few minutes. Just until they could get through.

"Let's start over and keep it simple, _brat_," Kisame scowled, keeping his voice as low as possible, both to keep in check his own temper and avoid the eavesdropping ears.

The teenager, who paid little attention to the volume of his voice, sneered, "For the sake of your small brain mass, a-o-kay, fish-breath."

Teeth grinded, and Kisame felt his sword growl in hunger and excitement. _Mission first, kill brat later..._

"Our leader," Kisame began, "wishes to show his appreciation for your organization's past favors. He wishes to officially solidify the alliance between the Akatsuki and the Underground Resistance, and if possible, our organization would like to return your former generosity. How may we do that?"

The teen mulled over the words. "Better," he scoffed. "If you put it that way, okay, sure, you may _return our former generosity_ by... I don't know... _getting back Itachi_ so I wouldn't have to listen to _your dumb mouth_ for another second!"

"Bastard child-"

"Fucktard-"

_BANG_. Two bowls of noodles were placed in front of them, scalding hot soup slashing onto their faces.

"_Anything else_?" the waiter asked threateningly, clearly upset by the disturbances in peace again. Until the last traces of boiling anger subdued, Haku lingered besides them menacingly. Once they did, his charming kindness returned, and he waltzed away.

"How about a brain for this douche," the teen grumbled once out of earshot.

"I really need to kill you," Kisame informed, and picked up his pair of chopsticks, eating the first real food he'd had for weeks.

"I, too, will do civilization a favor by removing your deficiencies from the gene pool, _fish-face_," the teen calmly replied, "since, I don't know, I've never met someone so stupid as to lose their own _partner!_"

"I. Was told. To leave."

"And your mother probably told you to grow a brain."

"Can we get back to the deal?"

"How many?" The teenager purposely changed the topic.

"What?"

"You said it was an ANBU ambush. How many?"

"A squadron. Listen, we have a shipment from Kusa-" Kisame was interrupted by an obnoxious snort.

"_Four_?" the teen laughed. "Four measly little ANBU? _What kind of a joke are you playing at_."

"I'm not-"

"So, let me get this straight," the teen said, his hand in a waving gesture. "You came to me, five days late, missing your negotiator, having not the faintest idea of the treaty, and expecting me to believe some crackpot story of how Uchiha Itachi, the Uchiha Itachi, fell down to the hands of four pathetic State ANBU soldiers?"

Kisame held his fury, failed, and crushed the pair of chopsticks in his hands. He reached for another pair, and snapped them apart so hard, the entire thing turned to nothing but splinters.

"Yes."

"Oh, and I bet you'll tell me he went down without a fight either?

Another pair of chopsticks snapped. "Yes."

"And none of this seems odd to you whatsoever?" the teenager questioned. "That because he said 'leave,' you flee like the good little puppy you are, and don't even bother to stop and think, wow, I'm such a_ moron_, because it hasn't occurred to me _once_ to ask on how does this story I'm spewing out of my mouth makes _any_ sense."

"I never said it made sense," Kisame snarled. "I only said what _happened_."

"You know, I think what _really_ happened was that your partner just got sick of your stupidity and planted that genjutsu in your little fish brain to get the hell away fr-"

Kisame stood up. He had enough of this conversation. "THE DEAL, if you may."

The teen did as well. "What deal? Why should the Resistance bother with Akatsuki? You know, I thought you guys were something, until I learned they wasted away one of the most powerful and intellectual men in existence on _this_ buffoon, who thinks it's funny ha-ha to try and make me believe Itachi _just so happened_ to fall the State _right before our negotiation_."

"Yes," Kisame spat. "Very funny." Yes, they fucked up somehow, yes, his partner was gone, yes, this was utterly inconvenient and probably shameful, but this joke on him _had_ gone on long enough.

Itachi was dead to Akatsuki, and Kisame was coming to terms of that, with getting yelled at from all directions, with days of getting lost, with having to deal with a smart-mouth child, with being completely _independent _again after nearly a decade of happily tailing Itachi, because Itachi indeed took well care of both of them, did most of the work, gave Kisame whatever fighting he wanted to mindlessly indulge in, engaged in intellectual conversations, provided good companionship, and, most importantly, offered the much-rare _politeness_ and _respect_.

In all truth, stress only crashed down the moment Itachi disappeared, and Kisame hated everything so much at the moment, he wondered how on earth he even lived before Itachi. Oh yeah, he killed everything. Maybe he could return to that, as his hands kept on going back to the handle of Samehada, resisting the urge shred the brat like sliced ham. The only thing preventing him from doing so was the remnants of that calm, fluid voice ingrained in his memory, but listening to it became harder and harder when slapped with one reminder after another that the owner of said voice was freaking _gone_.

And this teen needed to _shut the hell up_. "...Itachi-"

"IS _DEAD_," came the roar, and the teen, raising an eyebrow, silenced. Kisame gripped the thorned hilt of his sword so hard, his own blood began to seep out and into the bandages. When the teenager didn't try and interrupt him – if he did, he'd be confetti – Kisame lowered his voice and hissed, "Itachi this, Itachi that. Listen brat, you need to get your head around the fact that Itachi-san is gone, and you need to stop asking for him like an obsessive little schoolgirl. Do you HONESTLY think that I didn't think something was wrong? You think that after a decade, I really didn't know my own partner? _You_ know _nothing_, brat, so let me use this time to tell you once and for all, that, if by any chance Itachi-san _did_ stage this somehow – unlikely – he obviously wanted nothing more from our organization, and he wanted nothing more from yours.

"So, it's either that, or we accept this did happen, improbable as it is. No matter how powerful they are, all shinobi face death on a daily basis, and if they falter, they _die_, if they linger, they _die_. Even the strongest can fall to the most trivial of means – a scrap, a blink, a blind eye, smoke, contaminated water, a diseased mosquito – I've seen it all, and if anything, the human life is fucking _fragile_ and Itachi..."

"And Itachi what?"

"And Itachi-san... was... fragile," Kisame resigned, collapsing back down to his seat, his bloodied hand releasing his sword. Maybe Itachi's resolve had crumbled, maybe he was too tired, maybe he intentionally dropped his guard... dying on your birth soil wasn't a bad way to go. Whatever the case, Kisame was fully convinced the Uchiha wouldn't protest to dying, only tell Kisame in the most deadpanned manner, _move on_.

And he did. "Now. The deal."

But the teenager didn't have any intentions of proceeding with the deal. He stared at the Mist-demon, examining him, assessing him, engaged in an inner debate as his childish demeanor and haughty smirk were washed away and replaced with dry maturity.

"Fine," he finally said, withdrawing a sealed scroll from inside his cloak. "The deal." He tossed it to Kisame. "Fifty platoons, two underground maps, bases included, access to the mining factories, nine crates of U.R. guns and ammunition, and the U.R.'s undivided support of Akatsuki."

"And in return?" Kisame cautiously asked, breaking the seal and unrolling the scroll, skimming over the treaty.

He froze.

It was here that the teenager _didn't_ laugh as he watched irony bite the both of them. "In return," he said, "Resistance requests the full backup of the Akatsuki during the week of solstice, and..."

"_The immediate, permanent, and unconditional surrender of Uchiha Itachi and his sharingan to the Underground Resistance upon the signing of this treaty? _What is the meaning of this!"

The teenager gave a bitter chuckle, a kunai now suddenly spinning on one finger. "Just a hint: next time you show up at a treaty, don't lose both your negotiator _and _bargaining chip. Now, please sign on the dotted line." The kunai punctured through the scroll.

His tone allowed for no further questions, and after Kisame stepped aside to contact Pein to demand that this all be a joke, that the world was just mercilessly mocking him, he returned with a pale expression and a conveniently bleeding hand that signed the contract.

When the deal was completed, the teenager stabbed his unusual-looking kunai in eight more critical points on the scroll, to which the scroll then immediately glowed and retracted in a swift motion, a burning kanji locked in place. A flash of hand seals later, a replica of the punctured scroll was duplicated for Kisame, and the teenager tucked the original and his kunai away, readying to leave, all his bowls of ramen stacked neatly in the corner.

"We're not done-"

"We are," the teenager finished coldly, and in a whirl of wind, he disappeared and reappeared on top of the bar. He didn't need to make the slightest noise before all sounds ceased and every person turned to give him undivided attention.

His fingers brought down his hood, and spikes of blond hair emerged, along with a set of deep, deep blue eyes, vastly different from the feral red before, a stone expression in place and an enormous commanding aura flowing through him.

"Change of plans!" he declared, his voice strong, powerful, firm. "We gather at spring. Sector Four, meet with our brethren at Rice and Sand. Sector Nine, follow his man and return with him to Rain. The rest of you, head for Base Five to prepare and recoup. I'll be with you all by March after I attend a few personal matters."

To Kisame's surprise, everyone recited an unison "HAI!"

"Dismissed."

The entire bar had one last cheer and shot of alcohol before dispersing. The games and food were abandoned as each reached for their travelers cloaks and weapons. It was blinding how fast order emerged amidst complete chaos.

"Where are you going?" the Mist-nin asked, cautiously trudging over to the teen.

"The State," the other said matter-of-factly, as if entering the most fortified, terrifying, dangerous military city was another stroll in the gardens. "I do believe Akatsuki just relinquished Itachi over to us, but since it's painfully obvious I failed to specify the _safe delivery of_, I'll just have to fetch Itachi back myself."

Dumbfounded, Kisame could only spew out, "Are you mad? The _State_?"

"From your tone, I assume I will not have your support. Good, because your miserable existence will only jeopardize my trip."

"Itachi-san is... it's been over a week... he can't be alive by now."

"All the more reasons to hurry," the teenager waved off. "This slight inconvenience will not hinder my plans, and even if Itachi becomes useless, Danzou sure as hell can't have his – _my_ – sharingan."

And suddenly, a chilly realization hit the Mist-nin, in which being submerged in sub-zero waters couldn't wake him up more. And before Kisame could even register what he was saying, the words came out, "What if Itachi-san hadn't agreed to your organization's... terms?"

Eyes glinted red, and fangs revealed themselves in a cruel, satirical smirk. "You keep asking the wrong questions. I believe it's a little too late to be worrying about... _consent._ Why? _You_ have objections, fish-face?"

No response.

"Didn't think so." With that, the teenager vanished with a flutter of his cloak.

Amongst the rush, the waiter and the man with the enormous butcher sword approached the baffled Akatsuki.

"Open your eyes any wider and your eyeballs will fall out, Hoshigaki," Zabuza grunted, patting the fellow swordsman on his back.

Recomposing himself, Kisame muttered, "I'm out of here. Make sure your leader gets the deal from that brat before he commences his suicide mission." Kisame latched on his Samehada and pushed his way out of the bar, much more violently than usual.

The waiter and man watched the stampeding exit and exchanged a look.

"He doesn't realize- Why didn't Leader-sama..."

"I don't know, and I long gave up trying to."


	10. IX

The water was dirty.

Drip, drip, red threads webbed out and dissipated into a bronzish pink. A hand dipped into the bath. With an amiable grin, Sasuke gently rubbed away the crusted blood and semen on his brother's face. Like cleaning the grime off a window, pretty skin – ripped, ragged, scarred – revealed itself once more.

"Look at me," he commanded, calm and hushed.

Eyes slowly trailed up to the source of his voice, but nothing greeted him but a faint outline of his own reflection. It was more aesthetic that way, an anesthesia of the mind that made Itachi appear like a delicate puppet that would submerge into the very waters he rested in if Sasuke ever let go.

"Will you speak now," Sasuke mulled, tracing his thumb over Itachi's lower lip, cut and bruised a violent dark blue. The result of an uncontrolled greed. He made a note to treat them kinder in the future, because he likened them a little too much, and it would be a shame if they would be the first to go.

When Itachi made not a single sound, not even a change in breath, he dropped his hand.

"Very well," he chuckled, and placed a wash cloth into his brother's hand.

He left; Itachi knew what to do.

The cloth floated in the water, almost about to slip free and out between unmoving fingers, when at the last second, Itachi found grip. His hand moved unsteadily as it surfaced, strained as if the cloth was weighted down by a pool of mercury. As if he were battling with the heaviness of the water, and the water was winning. But then he was composed once more, and closed his eyes as he proceeded to wipe his face.

From the bedroom, Sasuke could hear droplets, the disturbance of rippling water as the cloth was wrung again and again, as Itachi continued to mechanically clean himself. The number of movements was minimal, but nonetheless each was precise. The calligraphy on Itachi's body would be erased in a reversal of the same strokes, one by one, until nothing remained but the tattered skin underneath.

Very soon, filth accumulated from three nights of sex was completely undone, and Itachi was able to return to the bed, laundered as the robe he was draped in. His toe barely left the floor when his back was pushed into the mattress once more.

Itachi tilted back his head, closed his eyes. He unclenched his fist.

It did not hurt anymore.

* * *

It was a rare case for Danzou to underestimate. He was a cynic, drenched in paranoia, eyed only the worst possible outcomes. And yet, he underestimated, again, on the exact same person twice.

"He has not given a single word, Danzou-sama," reported the spy.

The elder dug his palm into the end of his cane, mentally reassessed his risks once more. The extent a man can endure is marvelous indeed, even in depravity, _especially_ in depravity. However, if there were anything Itachi would not have sacrificed, he assumed it would be the moral integrity of him and his younger brother. And yet, Itachi still took silence, and Sasuke got his new fuck toy.

Danzou pinched open the blinds to let in the flow of dusty sunlight.

"He didn't try to kill him."

The spy could not figure out whom his leader was referring to.

In the distance was an explosion, followed by blankets of tumbling smoke. Time was running out. He had a war to win, and now was not the time to be tinkering with riddles.

* * *

The gathering was behind a fallen ramen sign, amidst the ruins of an abandoned neighborhood. She was a lithe girl who spent most of her days leaning against piles of garbage bags in the alleyway between a bar and brothel, hair covering her a good half of her face and wheat stalk in mouth. He was barely any taller, who hopped between posts, and spent his nights in the ventilation, the sewer system, or crevices in the wall. They both made a living out of causing mayhem, the ones that involve copious amounts of spray paint, adhesive material, and laxatives. That, and fulfilling their duties as the headway generals of an ongoing war.

Their biweekly meeting was interrupted by an empty rice barrel that rolled over from the stacks of pillaged crates. The top popped open, and a tuque peaked out first, followed by a hand, then the face of a redhead. Before anyone attacked, she held up a three-pronged kunai, then carefully crawled out of the barrel.

"Fuuma Sasame of Sector One," the redhead stated. "_The hurricane carries change_."

The girl stepped out of her form, but did not untense. "_Scarecrows make fools out of chickens_. Commander Hyuuga Hanabi at your service."

"_Expired milk causes diarrhea_," shrugged the boy. "Commander Sarutobi Konohamaru here."

"Sector Zero. Lucky me." Exhaling a breath of relief, Sasame stowed away her kunai. "Currently, Sector One is drilling a hole in the chakra barrier and disabling the sensors without arousing suspicion. Leader-sama only needs a nanosecond's opening to get in. Now he needs you guys to help him get _under_."

Hanabi raised an eyebrow. "He feeling suicidal again? What does he want from down there?"

"If I had to hazard a guess, the Sharingan."

Konohamaru barged in. "He's risking everything for a lousy Sharin-!"

"Not a bio-engineered replica," Sasame clarified, plopping onto a crate and giving a good hard kick of her heel against the dusty floorboards. "An _original_. From what I know, he went through the ends of the Earth trying to get one, so an original Sharingan is the only hypothesis that makes sense."

"But all the original Sharingan have been grave-robbed a decade ago! The State was the first place he searched! We've been at it for... gods, I don't even remember how long."

"Must have gotten a lead then. The Uchiha were of Konoha; the first search may have turned up fruitless, but the State is still the best place to look. In any case, if he would risk going into the tunnels for it, the object must be the Sharingan. Because if he gets the Sharingan-"

An explosion in the distance, and a tremble of the earth, deep and rattling. Crates toppled down, and hinges of planks threatened to fall.

Sasame pulled down her knit hat. "By that, I'm guessing he's arrived."

"And unfortunately, in a time crisis this time," came the coarse voice. A cloaked figure stepped into the shack, covered by three layers of debris. He massaged his cranium, breathed irritatedly, as his pupils uncontrollable dilated, flashing from a feral red back to blue, and back to red. While the aura around him cooled, he buttoned his cloak and tossed it and his outer garments to Sasame. "Thank your team for me. Konohamaru, Hanabi, I trust you know how to get me into the goddamn tunnels?"

They did. Four screws, one successful strike at iron bars, and eight acrobatic leaps into spaces both far too unforgiving for the human size and anatomy later, Konohamaru hung from a dangling rag rope, linked by hand to Hanabi, who nailed the last metal pipe some distance down the endless abyss with a three pronged kunai. In a wisp of air, their leader appeared and threw the kunai back. He revisioned his eyes with chakra and examined the location: a natural split in the earth that seemed to go infinity in both directions, with a cross networking of human constructed pipes and machinery tunneling across.

The place must have been a scar from the bombs that brought the old Konoha down, a trench so deep that it couldn't be repaired, only sealed. And it was definitely sealed; the little breathable air held an overwhelming scent of rust and soil; the only light source was a small twist LED bulb that dangled from Hanabi's necklace.

"This is as far as we can go without being detected. Just keep going down until you'll hit a duct," Konohamaru informed him.

A thumbs up. "Got it."

"Now, my question is, how do you plan to get _out_?"

"Good question, and good luck, because that's your next assignment."

"WHAT-!"

And he jumped, but not before the duo could shout, "NARUTO, YOU IDIOT!"

* * *

New blood was seeping out when Itachi's body finally gave away.

It seemed to be the first mercy. You could endure, you could dissociate, you could scream, but all shinobi eventually learn that the mind does not shut down from pain alone, regardless of how much you beg. Itachi lost consciousness, because Sasuke was negligent, didn't quite care for the burgeoning blues and purples on his brother's back and legs, didn't stop when Itachi couldn't hold on any longer.

Sasuke leaned besides the body, securing the guards against his arm.

He paid tribute to the cabinets, found a small healing remedy and tossed it to the bed. It landed a hair away from his brother's fingertips. If there was anything Itachi was capable of, it was picking himself up. He drank whatever was presented to him without contention, took syringes without any struggle. There was hardly any need for barking orders: those were for the truly demented.

Sasuke reclaimed his chokuto and mask, and locked the door behind him.

Seconds later, his State mark burned, and an inner alarm sounded.

* * *

The ceiling broke through with a spiral of wind.

And he had been so careful to not trip any chakra wires, which would have been impossible in any manner, considering the web of sensors covering every inch of every corridor. The sensors wires went straight through him. Should the corresponding chakra signature not be recognized in their system's database, a silent alarm goes off. Should the corresponding chakra signature _be_ recognized, as in, on the black list, then not only does the silent alarm goes off, but approximately two dozen Root soldiers come to greet you.

"Say hello to Danzou for me, eh? In hell." Naruto kicked his heel down into the temple of his last befallen enemy, then strapped on a mask of dark porcelain. His new garbs were of a rough fit, stripped from the smallest trooper, but they worked.

He looked at the hole in the ceiling, the opening to a remarkable path of nearly seven miles of vents, steam pipes, irrigation tunnels, and old-fashioned digging. Too bad the net made the route one-way. Chunks of rubble violently hit the ground, as Naruto collapsed the entire segment of the hallway, burying away the last light source, a withering light-flash bomb, from when the Root tried, and failed, miserable to ambush him.

Now, Naruto stared at darkness. So nothing had changed. Stingy as always; not a single light, not even a medieval torch or two hanging on the walls. He yanked out the first of his three necklaces and gave it a tight twist. The small light bulb flickered to life, and pitch-black retreated to a good three feet ahead.

"Alright Itachi, let's find you."

As he made his way down the maze of stone tunnels, there appeared to be nothing more than a ray of passing yellow light, a ray that divided itself in two, four, eight, at every split path, multiplying exponentially until the entire labyrinth had been flooded by the light of fifty thousand shadow clones.


	11. X

The timing was impeccable. Two things called to him simultaneously. The rings of an invader on the far edges of his domain, and the burning sensation of a summon to his superiors.

The former was a breech unheard of, impressive almost, and a rare opportunity. The latter granted another dosage of misery and a trial for his patience.

Was there even the need for a choice.

Sasuke laughed. It had been far too long that his katana had been dry of blood.

* * *

4,338 dead ends, and counting. As more and more clones returned, the map of the labyrinth unraveled itself. His brain began to reform a spatial conception of the planes, and he noted the changes through the years.

But this knowledge was useless. He did not have time to contemplate; he needed to speed-grind through every inch of this blasted place, before the information circulated to the top and he would be faced with more than he could swallow.

Given the speed of which chakra and electricity traveled, followed by the transcription of machines, and the dispatch of soldiers, Naruto estimated his remaining time was measured in seconds.

Fifteen seconds in, he had covered an acre, and a faint, but familiar chakra presence awaited for him behind a solid metal door.

The smell of chemicals mixed in with copper was so strong, he could barely breathe.

"Hell," he whispered.

* * *

Itachi barely anchored back to reality; and when he did, he understood it was not by the will of his body. Nor was he in his regular company. His fingers felt the smooth apparatus of glass, and subtly took hold of it in his palm with minimal movement.

Meanwhile, the touch of healing hands left his body.

"You're awake. Get up."

* * *

A foot crushed a delicate pair of glasses twisted awry. On the floor were shattered ceramic, slashed wires, the bodies of ten troops and three unfortunate scientists who were at the wrong place at the wrong time.

A ring turned.

When the tip of a finely edged smooth swords was embedded in solid concrete, Sasuke had to grin at his ghost of an opponent.

"You don't exist."

The swivel of a nostalgic orange greeted him. The intruder continued to turn the Vermillion ring between his index and thumb, feeling for its weight, while the teeth of a carnivorous plant retracted into the walls.

"Well, well,well, isn't this a case of the pot calling the kettle black."

* * *

Itachi felt latex seize his wrists and bind them behind. There were four people in the room. One was securing him firmly in place with constraints and ropes. One was injecting a risky combination of a stimulant and sedative into his bloodstream. One was unzipping a case of dense mass, sharply preparing the line up of scalpel and tools. And one was heeling him.

And for a faint second, the world appeared as a colorful assortment of the intangible, and the photographic snapshots of passing motion. It was only for a faint second, and it would remain the closest thing to sight he would have, before the blindness cradled him once more.

A sharp edge rested at the corner of his eye, waiting for the proper moment.

"This will be quicker if you activate the sharingan."

They didn't expect cooperation, and within a second, a six inch wired syringe struck down his shoulder and through a pressured nerve.

Itachi's body reacted, recoiled in a defensive mechanism, but the sharingan did not come out. It couldn't come out, not yet. But it wanted to, so the healer worked faster to force in chakra.

It would take a few more tries, mending and ripping, until they reached the right combination, but they would find it eventually. Strength would return to their subject, and when the divine eyes came down to protect its master, it would be the ripe time to pluck them right out.

* * *

If there was one thing that sickened Naruto to the core, it was the smell of disinfectant. He came to realize it was almost always partnered with death. A cleanup of carcasses.

Blood, he had a far more higher tolerance for, but the idea of spillage of _this _type of blood boiled his own. The metal door was contorted into a grotesque spiral, stretched and snapped right off it's hinges.

Conveniently, this room _was_ luxurious enough to have a light switch, something under these circumstances the world could fair better without. The overhead pipes began to churn out energy, and the beams of lights buzzed into an unforgiving existence.

They shed a cold light on the bloodbath in the middle of the laboratory.

Literally, a bath of blood, with the peeking touches of flesh and fingertips, and strands of long, black hair floating freely and latching onto the sides of a neglected tub of grime yellow and green.

Naruto stepped up to the subject, carefully examined lips of blue and eyes bandaged off from the world. Somewhere lost in the picture were the refine traits of nobility and power, the last treasures of a lost clan, with a lone younger sibling still alive and waiting in some far away world.

"I guess prince charming arrived too late for you, Hinata-san."

He then proceeded to slash a kunai through the pipe of oxygen connected to her lungs, as well as tubes allowing drop by drop of condensed black liquid to enter her veins.

* * *

"Do you know what is a beautiful power of the dead?" the invader questioned, transitioning in and out of the very fabric of reality.

"To decay?" Sasuke fancied himself with the riddle, slashing a single finger to command strikes of electricity through his fanciful opponent. He aimed for the eye-catching mask, marks simple Xs in the air.

"To torment the living," was the answer, as the invader migrated to behind the Root captain, and a wave of lethal chains attacked.

It was hardly a challenge, and Sasuke was gone into the shadows, until a single thin needle of lightning shot out and directly pierced into the bullseye of the spiraling orange mask. It penetrated the exact middle of the main pupil, the dead center of mass of three spiraling tomoe.

It sent the intruder into a vacuum. He departed with some final advice the captain had little taste for, "Enjoy it while it last. Nothing can be exploited forever." That, and a newly-issued grenade just about due.

* * *

There was an aftershock that waved out for a kilometer, strong enough to make the cabinets shake, and the door to give away to the slightest opening.

It was significant only to certain people, as the healer tensed in dread, knees shaking, and did the unthinkable. She kicked aside the medical case, just a second's distraction, then jumped across the bed and fled.

The others had the word _treason_ on the tip of their tongues, had they any tongues left, or a mouth, head, body for them to belong to.

The whole process was clean, simple as swallowing three unsuspecting flies. While their bones churned in stomach acid, the floor slowly became level again, the scent of outside decay and foreign soil disappearing as quickly as it came.

"Of the arrangement from the Akatsuki to the Resistance..." the walls spoke, voice trailing further away, "our obligations are fulfilled..."

Itachi needed only ten seconds to undo all the constraints on himself, trace over the bindings and let everything unravel. Medics knew how to constrain patients; they did not know how to trap shinobi.

The last rope fell to the floor by the twelfth second, the same time Itachi had pulled fabric across the last puncture wound and the leader of the Underground Resistance graced the room with his presence.

"78,403 rooms, and counting," came the greeting from behind, humor dry as bone. "You never struck me as the type to need rescue, nevermind one this dramatic."

Itachi closed his eyes. He didn't have the strength to return the courtesy of a smile, and he had little left to trade for a word. Hidden from under the fabric of a sleeve, a delicate trace of red trailed down his shoulder and streaming off into the cracks of his fingers. It was not long before the support of his arm caved in, and his act collapsed.

That was when Naruto advanced, and hiding became an impossibility. A dangerous breath was drawn, followed by the dilation of slitting pupils, and the swift pull of bed covers that tried to obscure the stains. He caught sight of Itachi's face, damaged and battered, the same violent signature weaving down the neck and body.

A chuckle from the door. "I wasn't done with this one."

The words were the spark amidst a room drenched in gasoline. The fires of the room flared. The floors splintered. The air densed by a magnitude of ten, viciously swirling to life, thicker, faster, noisier, gathering more and more momentum. Claws could rip through steel; they grip and go through the mattress as if it were melted butter.

A sudden mass shot through the air, a hurricane of condensed bubbling chakra. The captain stood his place, letting the boiling wind whip past him and howl into the hallway tunnels. He removed his mask, gazed curiously at the terrifying fracture, and watched it crumble before his eyes.

Grey ceramic dust blew away.

How raw, rapacious.

But even the untamed could be controlled. The sharingan spun with fever, a hypnotizing kaleidoscope that caused the heavy chakra in the air to react, erratically spin. The chakra weaved and thrashed, but it nonetheless compressed tighter and tighter, jammed back into the abdomen of its host.

Naruto's back made solid contact with the opposite wall, a crater in its wake.

Meanwhile, Sasuke flashed forward and recollected his befallen brother, motionless, limp, except for the rise and fall of breathing. Lungs were struggling; the atmosphere had been too heavy, tight, hostile, screaming in rage and madness, and echoes of it still remained. Itachi was falling apart along with the room.

From the opposite side of the room, feral red eyes snapped open, fangs open at the sight of the captain stroking his brother lovingly.

"_You will pay._" The inhuman hiss was like an evaporating steam, demon extinguished and boxed back into a human shell.

"With what, 607?" Sasuke mocked, as his fingers tilted up Itachi's chin as a display of merchandise. "The blood of a harlot? The eyes of one?"

Like a choreographed puppet, Itachi's eyes opened accordingly, gaze downcast.

Naruto's fingernails dug into the floors. "You bas-!"

Clones silenced him with a blade through his chest, down to the hilt, each a foot of steel buried into the wall to lock him in place. Meanwhile, the real one glared down with narrowed eyes.

"How ill-mannered. I should have never loosened your leash," he stated collectedly, yet each breath was frigid, sinister, homicidal, as his grip on his brother tightened more and more with every passing word. "_Because the one time you return, I find you daring to steal my possession_." He punctuated violently with a throw of his brother across the room. Naruto opened his arm and the two made painful collision, fallen into a mockery of an embrace.

"Since you want eyes like mine so badly, 607, take them. Let's see if a dumb dog can learn any new tricks." Sasuke sneered, kicking up a scalpel off the floor and thrusting it into the wall. It stood as a dart an inch to the left of their face. "Dear brother, since someone seems to have generously supplied you with a bit of chakra, assist him. _Activate your sharingan and cut them out_."

"You fucking si-" Naruto felt his heartbeat stop when he felt the weight upon himself shift and a second pair of sharingan churned to life. Although trembling from exertion, Itachi reached and grabbed the handle of the scalpel. Mechanically, he pulled it out.

"What-"

Itachi met his gaze for the first time, expression beaten and defeated. Guarded against his chest was a small vial, barely visible from the cracks of his fingers. It was the first time Naruto noticed, and paled when he saw what was inside. Condensed black liquid.

"What have they done to you," he choked.

There was a weak smile, almost apologetic.

And then, without warning, Itachi whipped around and threw the scalpel with perfect precision. It hit a jugular, just as the ground shook once more, and platoons of black swarmed in, ready to seal away every inhabitant in the room.

* * *

A cough, as Konohamaru wiped the debris layered thick on his goggles. Before him in the distance was a crater four hundred meters deep, and a diameter twice of that. One third of the surface of this crater used to be inhabited by people. Unfortunately, not those of the Foundation. All the governmental buildings were protected against explosions, and the true bastards were underground.

"This is crazy," came a cough from behind him. "If he didn't feel the shock of the first blast, he definitely should have felt this one."

"Is it not deep enough?"

"No, I see the chakra net as clear as day this time, and this one definitely went below it."

"Is he _dead_?"

Hanabi gave her partner a painful jab of her fingers at the suggestion. "He better hurry. The decoys can barely stall any- wait." Her eyes sharpened, zoned in on the faint outline of the uppermost tunnel she could visually see with her Byakugan. There was color.

Instantly, she pushed aside the wreckage and climbed over the snapped, sizzling timber and rock. Konohamaru followed her example, and the two met with their leader on the border of the crater. They froze upon seeing the menace in his eyes, bitter and glowering, but then their inevitably gazes fell to what laid in his arms..

A body.

Hanabi didn't need to remove the bandages from around the eyes to recognize her long lost sister.

"H-how?"

"It was accidental. Give her a proper burial." The Resistance leader solemnly placed the body down before them.

As Hanabi scrambled forward, almost shuffling on her knees to seize hold of the last of her blood, Konohamaru wrinkled his nose at the strong iron and acidic smell. He was about to respectfully distance when his eyes caught motion. "Wait, she's breathing!"

Naruto had his back turned, ready to depart. "Her brain is dead. And after I cut her off, her body will be too."

Tears started trailing down, as Hanabi buried her face into her sister's chest and wrapped her arms tighter, bringing the both of them up. Her throat could only emit noise, not words.

"S-s-sun."

Naruto froze.

"Feel s-sun..."

"_NEE-SAN_!" Hanabi finally found her voice, a scream that resonated the loudness of her thumping heart – grieving, joyous, overwhelmed, flooding.

* * *

Sasuke extracted his blade from his twentieth victim, the last of Danzou's annoying little troops. The _wrong_ place at the _wrong_ time, and they paid the price. With an angry flicker, the blood from his weapon splattered onto the walls and ground.

There were no more intruders, no more nuisances, and no more shadow clones, and... no more fun.

There were only two people left in the room now.

Sasuke picked up the scalpel from the ground.

"I did not give you permission to do that..." He stepped towards his brother. "I will teach you..." A splitting grin, as electricity crackled to life. "... _what happens when people defy me_."

* * *

"Did you..." Konohamaru finally dared to ask, huddled on top of a crate.

He didn't need an answer, but he got one anyway. "No."

The reply was restrained in fury, as Naruto's hand subconsciously went to his neck again. For two memories to return at once, in complete juxtaposition, exact opposites up until the final moment, the sensations of defeat and victory, loathing and satisfaction, staring into the warm trust of an ally, facing the cold apathy of a foe.

He would have finally destroyed the fucking bastard, had Itachi not killed him. Twice, on both sides.

He clenched his fist. He knew it was something else that came as the brutal blow, maddened him, haunted him. There was a vial. There was a chance and a _choice_, and had only...

"Is n-nightm-m-ma-ver?" came the shiver, as Hinata reached out a shaking hand.

"Yes, it's over, it's over, it's over," Hanabi cried, holding onto her sister's hand and wrapping a blanket tighter around her. "You're safe, nee-san. Leader-sama," she turned to Naruto. "Please, Leader-sama, Naruto, please take her out of here. Please get her out of the State and keep her safe. Please."

Naruto stared at the siblings, then seized hold of his cloak and draped it around the elder. "You two make plans to leave too," he finally told his subordinates, lifting the shivering mass into his arms again. "Tell the allies to get out."

"What!" Konohamaru stood up on the crate. "But there's still work left here to be done, why are-"

"Because," their leader interrupted, "the next time I return, I am obliterating this place, and every last person in it, from existence."

The signal from Sector One sounded in the distance, and he vanished.


	12. XI

"They did their best, Leader-sama."

The tap of a cane against stone, and all the guards retreated.

Danzou stood his place in the hospital cell, stared down at the prisoner kneeling before him. He lifted his cane, treated it as if it were a sword and struck down.

The end stopped a millimeter before the prisoner's face, hung in the air. There was no reaction. Then, he let his cane make the lightest touch against skin and instantly found a violent tension, and palpitations of fear. The prisoner did not dare recoil, did not dare breathe. But even after the contact lifted, the tremor did not subdue.

Ages ago, Danzou watched a boy allow a drill of needles puncture his upper arm, not a single muscle taut as a mixture of blood and ink dripped down.

Danzou watched this boy return alone with chain marks imprinted on his wrists, as he calmly reported his teammates were dead, his sensei was dead, and the target was dead. Three days prior said teammates had him wrapped around their arms in laughter and his sensei stuffed herself full with a generous serving of salmon.

Danzou watched this boy impassively deny involvement of the death of his dearest friend for the eighteenth time, before someone finally snapped and outright spat what everyone was thinking: had he any humanity, any conscience, because Shisui was a man of honor, code, justice, and compassion, and if anything, _he should have been the one to gain the Mangekyou_. He retained his composure, even when screamed at, slapped at, before the chief intervened and put an end to the parade of obloquy against his son. He accepted the anger, shame, and disappointment of his own father.

And finally, Danzou watched him pray and plead and attempt to atone for the crimes of the very same people who tried to sentence him, until the Third gave away to silence, and he was forced to swallow and acquiesced, accepted the mission with the mask of a soldier.

Long ago, there existed a boy wearing the very quintessence of self-control. And now, it was finally gone.

"With time and remedy, is it still not possible," Danzou questioned the medics.

"His nerves are damaged, Leader-sama," answered the eldest medical chief, bowing deeply. "Even if the remedy repairs physical wounds, the body retains memories of having them."

"Can the body not build tolerance."

"It is the same as any injury, Leader-sama. Break a bone once, it strengthens, break it multiple times, and it aches under the slightest breeze. As with the muscular system, immune system, nervous system, too much no longer fortifies, but sensitizes them. If the body thinks it will be harmed in any way, it will instantly react."

"And when it does?"

"It releases chemicals into the body that can stun the heart, overwhelm the brain, shut down organs, and trigger its own death."

Danzou contemplated over the facts, his breathing deep. Despite it all, he was weary and worn by age, wrinkled eyes and knotted fingers. Seeing the befallen Akatsuki brought a wave of unease into his stomach: the war-torn photographs of the old Konoha, and the reminder that the youth need not a fatal blow to be as exposed to death as the old.

"Will he last," he finally asked.

The medical chief hesitated, and chose his words carefully. "Only if there were absolutely no more stress, trauma, or stimulus of any kind."

Danzou was wise enough to listen to his opinion. "Then place him in quarantined isolation, sterilize everything, shut down his brain. Retrieve the eyes after." The orders were final, and he readied his exit, when the prisoner's tremors worsened and eight guards instantly surrounded their leader in defensively.

"My mission is not yet complete, Danzou-_sama_," came the smooth objection, as an ANBU captain suddenly whisked in. He removed the last remnants of the cuffs against his wrists, and peeled off the nasty paper seals.

"You failed your mission," Danzou stated bluntly, without giving as much as a blink as to how the captain broke free of his own containment chamber. However, as the captain nonchalantly stepped forward, ignoring the warnings of the guards, only one thought entered into Danzou's mind: dangerous.

A black knight that mutinies at the end stages of the game, the situation could only be described as dangerous for all sides of the board. After the incident, the captain ceased all forms of predictability.

The sudden appearance of the kyuubi host made its impact. The State was bombed. The citizens were terrorized; aerial bombings years ago had been ingrained in everyone's memories. They would surrender their freedom for protection against them. Now that it was happening again, they had a right to be outraged, riot, attempt to get out. In their eyes, over eight hundred dead was frightening, and it was better to die trying to climb over the walls of the State than be sitting ducks.

But the attacks were superficial. Only decoys. For the kyuubi host to have entered the underground tunnels of all places. To have had contact with the one person he should never, ever have contact with.

The ANBU captain was very used to the State giving him what he wanted. He was only loyal because the State gave him what he wanted. The encounter itself was a sharp reminder that the State had _failed_ to give him what he wanted before. _Failed_ to retain the kyuubi host for a second time, _failed_ to keep its side of the deal.

One medical squad missing. Twenty Root soldiers gutted alive by a State-issued weapon. The most valuable prisoner of war a helpless trembling heap amongst broken glass on the floor. And they discovered him, leaning casually on the bed, wiping the blood off his blade methodically, not even trying to bury the evidence.

His contract with Danzou never did have a cement hold; he only toyed with what amused him, destroyed what didn't, and obeyed whatever was in his interest. He followed the State because it told him where the excitement was, then gave him very pleasant rewards when he returned. That by no means meant he went by their rules and regulations.

They couldn't constrain him. He easily exited his cell, the chain around his neck playfully twirled around and around before it snapped completely. His walk back down the tunnels had been a bloody one, and he entertained himself with a self-test: to aim for a different organ every time. And so, the first shinobi fell with no eyes, the next with a fist though his ear, then with a puncture in the lungs, a hole in the thyroid, a slice through both intestines, a liver clawed out, a stomach crushed. It was dirty, it was messy, it was fun as he easily had his next opponent's sword in his grasp. The next second, the weapon was shoved in a feet deep through the guard's rectum.

The journey calmed him down significantly, an excellent sedative, that by the time he appeared in the hospital wing, his temper had cooled. He sheathed his sword before his so-called superior.

"Allow me to repay my debt then."

Danzou assessed the situation. He knew this day would come, when he needed to discard the sword before it cut its own master. He had hoped that time would be towards the very ends of the war, but the risk of retaining him until then was too high.

"And how would you do that," Danzou questioned.

The captain hid his splitting, crescent smile. "Allow me to track the kyuubi host and return him to you."

"What makes you believe you will succeed."

"I do believe I have gained some very... crucial information," the captain chuckled, and withdrew something that had all the guards rigid.

A grenade.

The captain fiddled with the contraction, rolled it in his hands. "The explosions on the outside... they were of these particular devices, I believe," he mulled, tapping on the safety lever. "It's been a specialty of the Resistance, although never has one been recovered, until now. "

The captain tossed it. Instantly, a guard caught the device and flickered away, just in case.

"This was on the body of the kyuubi host," Danzou clarified.

The answer chilled him to the bones.

"No. I recovered this from my fight with a second intruder of the time. With him momentarily was some monstrosity in the cloak of... my, I do believe of the Akatsuki," the captain mused. "An attack characteristic of the _Resistance_ from above, the appearance of the long-missing _kyuubi host_ and _Akatsuki_ from below, _all at the exact same time_. How coincidental, Danzou-_sama_."

There was nothing else that needed to be said. He had captured all the attention he needed. With the wave of a hand, all the weapons in the room lowered, and the guards distanced.

"What else do you know."

"What I know, and what I will soon know, would all depend on my mood... and my company tonight." His gaze fell on the prisoner on the floor.

Weapons rose again.

"Because you disregarded your orders, he is now incapacitated," Danzou said dryly. "I return him to you, he will die before the night arrives."

"A shame if that were to happen," the captain concurred sardonically, eying his superior with a tint of exposed condescension. "But I do not fail."

He flickered to the prisoner's side, eliciting a few cries of protest from the medics. But no one dared approach him, as he snaked an arm around the prisoner and ignored the flinch. "He not die before his due," he said, subtly stroking the prisoner's arm. "I will make sure _nii-san_ is treated properly, _nii-san _is treated justly, _nii-san_ is given every... last... thing... he... inevitably... deserves."

And on the last stroke, his fingers curled and fingernails dug in hungrily, the smallest discharges of lightning gone unnoticed. Unnoticed, or ignored, it didn't matter, as long as it forced the uncontrollable trembling to cease, and allowed the electricity to take rein.

The only remaining symptoms now were the dilated pupils and convulsive breaths, the ones that grew sharper and sharper with each and every _nii-san_ that rolled off his tongue. Those, and the quickening pulse that no one but he could feel.

There was something precious about the way the heart pounded, a pulsation pure and honest against his fingers. Every time he fucked his brother, it beat and it bled, it bled and it beat, pleading, begging, weeping with every _thu-thump._ It was a delightful symphony of everything his brother wished to say but could not, would not, even when lips were quivering and thighs were coated with semen.

Yes, there was something precious here, and it made him want to forget the whole act, sink his hand in, and pull it straight out the chest.

"He will be well," the captain reassured. "_Nii-san_ will not die with me by his side."

Itachi clenched shut his eyes, as if it would help control his breathing, contain the pressure damming inside him, suppress the helpless need to cry.

In the end, Sasuke had gotten his way.

As Danzou exited down the halls, he nodded towards the medical chief who kept his respectful silence.

"Send a medic down there. Keep him alive."

"Leader-sama, with all due respect, the best a medic can do is mend physical wounds. Death comes from not just those."

That, Danzou had always known. He had seen how grief alone has managed to collapse the healthiest from the skies to the tombs.

"We need only buy time. See how much the best medic we have can give us."

* * *

Sakura arrived just as the interrogation experts made their leave.

"140," she greeted curtly, and placed a new pair of bifocal lens into the palm of bedded patient.

He strained to sit upright, and tucked the glasses in place. "SMD 601," he said, blinking. "What an honor."

"Cerebellum, check. Temporal lobe, check. Primary visual, speech, motor, auditory, and sensory cortex, check, check, check all." Formalities done with, she tossed the clipboard altogether, kicked over a stool, and plopped down. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I just stumbled out of a nightmare," the patient confessed, rubbing his scalp. "Am I going to be dispatched soon?"

"From the test results, as quick as six hours."

"How are the rest of my division?"

"Dead."

The patient paused, as he absorbed this information. "This will be a challenge then. I fear I am not competent enough to complete the mission single-handedly."

"Fear not, because your mission is no more," came a third voice, as the medical chief entered the hospital cell.

"The ring is gone, isn't it," the patient stated factually, careful to keep his expression calm.

"That is out of my place to say. However, be reassured you will be assigned to a new division."

"Which?"

"Mine."

The chief handed over a parchment, of which the patient fumbled with his glasses and scanned over carefully.

"I will be on the team of SMD 601?" He couldn't keep his tone from rising in incredulity.

Meanwhile, Sakura bit down her thoughts. In her honest opinion, her team was already tailored quite nicely to her taste, who already knew the basic rules: shut your mouths, get out of her way, and don't screw up her orders. And the patient before her never once struck her as intelligible enough to serve good use-

"You will be the replacement of SMD 601," the chief corrected, and the wooden stool Sakura was sitting on clonked on the floor and rolled away.

"_Excuse-_"

"Danzou has personally promoted 601 to a new position, and a new task," the chief finished, handing her the second document in his hands. For a good whole minute, Sakura stared at the paper in disbelief, wondering if her new payment was misplaced by five decimal places.

* * *

"_... celebrate and be glad..." _The stone floor merged into lapping floorboards, brilliantly polished.

"_... for this, your ____brother __was ____dead____..." _The walls widened, transforming from harsh cement to wooden frames and delicate paper.

"_...____ and is alive __again..." _The ceiling heightened and peaked with a pointed arch, high and brightly lit with a halo of lights.

"... _h____e __was lost, and is found._"

The distant hymns of the church above were silenced with the slam of a door.

Itachi clutched the edges of his kimono. It was too thin, a watery silver and black that could be washed away like ink. He was also too thin, a parchment that could only be ripped and taped so many times before it couldn't hold together anymore. Sasuke joined him on the bed, gently thumbed over the shadows under his brother's eye. Itachi was fighting with himself to still, not violent jerk away and _scream_.

"I will not hurt you anymore," Sasuke said lovingly, as he brushed aside strands of his brother's hair and exposed his neck. It was ugly, swollen and uneven, the fury of a mad artist, blues and blacks, reds and purple, greens and yellows dripping down his shoulder and down his back. Sasuke draped a fragile silver necklace to frame it all, three loops clicking against each other.

"I will protect you from them." He slipped the kimono down Itachi's shoulder, let it fall all the way down to his hips. The scars overlapped, crisscrossed like branches. He ignored the trembling and kissed his brother on the forehead, the brow, the jaw, neck, lower and lower. "I will love you," he whispered hypnotically.

Sasuke felt Itachi's heart pulsating in his hand. It was not hard to cut his chest wide open and take it out, constrict around it like a tightening python.

"I will love you, brother. Just tell me where the kyuubi host is."


	13. Meridiem

The divine eye.

The ultimately designed software. Its lenses spinning, slowing time itself as it captures, copies, analyze and dissect every force of motion, every strand of chakra, every burst of heat and energy. It is intelligent, sending pulses to the brain that triggers adrenaline, surges the fibers of the muscles, controls the nerves in reflex. With the sharingan, the user needs no experience, need no talent, need no thought, as it scans, saves, and executes every jutsu with the spin of a wheel.

It is the most treasured weapon, but unlike a kunai nor shuriken, it cannot be manufactured. The chemicals can hiss, the cells can split, but what results is an eyeball that can only half see, the blurs of colors.

The sharingan is a form of life. It is born, it grows, matures, with its own mind and desire to see, to learn, to know, to _be_. To adapt and become whatever tool its master needs it to be: to penetrate and control a third mind, control and sedate the environment, make everything vacuum and disappear. The higher the fear, the more it wishes to protect, the higher the ambition, the more it wishes to fulfill.

The sharingan has a will, and a choice. It may serve its master...

Or it may reject him.

The screams finally stopped. They doused the corpse with a bucket of solution. The pull of latex gloves, a dull blade levering against the lower eyelid. Only one out of forty survived. But the ones that did were a thousand times more valuable.

* * *

"GET OUT!"

The toss of a backpack.

"What, no, you-"

Before the boy had any more words, wood snatched him, just as the bomb exploded.

They were clever. An inn, a bar, a soup or cloth shop, they congregate, then scurry out like sewer rats in the face on light.

A grin, as a grenade was tossed up and down in a gloved hand. The smell of tar, gunpowder, and charred wood. Their little toy against them, a small invention ten times more effective than a thousand explosion tags. Every ant hill was being stomped, every mole hole caved in. His target could only hide for so long, because soon, there would be no place to run and no people to protect him.

* * *

A vial of black liquid. Glorious, Sakura thought, before she mixed it into a cup of mineral solution. The consistency thickened, less like a fog, and more like a syrup. She brought the drink to her patient's lips, watched absorbed fluidly into his system, the uppers levels of epidermis reconnecting itself. A miraculous remedy, a burst of regenerative chakra that could save any creature from the brink of death with a drop.

Whoever invented this remedy, she couldn't help but think had one sick, creative mind. A wondrous work of raw efficiency, to recycle the trash and churn them into fuel. It begged the question of exactly how many victims, how many prisoners were swirling in her hand; she could feel their screams evaporate and graze through her skin, into her pores, tingling with contradiction. It smelled of decay, tasted of rot, defiled the soul with stain after stain. But as the cells multiply, tissues of muscle become anew, split bones reconnect, all without a hint of senescence, it was undeniably the height of science.

A biological immortality... as long as you kept drinking it. Because this, like all others, was a contract of the devil, a sip enough to bind you to sin for eternity.

And her patient was a fine sinner, chained within his own crypt below the holiest land in Fire. A descent down the a spiral of stone, the echoes of hymns, the flares of flames, the basins of water, the spiraling pillars, all to pay homage to a beautiful whore.

Beautiful indeed, and the more the remedy sunk in, the closer she looked, the more beautiful he was. Almost as beautiful as he was hideous, a delightful twist resulting in sultry eyes at half mass, and lips parted for bated breaths. A simple dip of head that exposed the nape of his neck, let strands of hair cascade down. An elegant cross of his arms that peaked his shoulders, collected the folds of the falling kimono. A calculated of withdrawal of his foot that drew spectators in, exposed his thigh and the brand seal of the State prison.

Almost as seductive as shameful. A decade of guilt that finished metamorphosing into pure shame, as he bowed his head, tried to cover the extent of his filth.

He didn't want her here.

She with the power to provide relief, numbness, euthanasia, he wanted her gone. No dignity, no humility, no modesty. He was embarrassed to be seen by her, only the more he tried to hide, the more alluring he became.

Sakura turned her back, ascended the stonewells. She wouldn't have stayed any longer regardless. The imprisonment was dense with a negative atmosphere, cornered, boxed, with no duty, no goal, no sense of time, all with the distant chants ruinous for the mind and sanity. Her own body would rot, her life force drained away.

Besides, he was a secret. A macabre secret no one was meant to see, dared to touch, a secret that served as a vessel for an even greater one.

Sakura understood her own death was imminent.

* * *

"Damn."

A three pronged kunai dug deeply into tree bark, as a woman settled down her wounded comrade. There were fragments of rusted metal and glass in his arm; he would lose the limb altogether if it wasn't treated soon, granted the infection didn't kill him first.

Though the rain masked their trails, it was now an enemy in their battle for survival. Diseases would spread and worsen. The cold was harsh and unforgiving. The remaining survivors nestled around the camp, a close congregation of tarps and branches strapped together at the last minute. There were only eight of them, the ninth just passed away from a splinter of wood in her lung, and the dog never made it out of the blast. Everyone was sick, wounded, dead under the pelt of the rain.

The only one moving was a man, who ripped his shirt and withdrew an aged flask. He knelt besides a boy with a shrapnel caught in his foot, two of his toes already turning black. The boy kept brave, and bit down on his lips when the shrapnel was extracted and alcohol hissed with his blood.

A minute later, fingers fell limp, and there remained seven.

A scream broke the silence.

"This is fucking ridiculous!" A woman stabbed the bark over and over again, before she punched and furiously stomped into the downpour, across into the adjacent tent.

The boy did not have the chance to give thanks before the man was yanked up by the shirt and slammed into the sludge of a ground.

"_You die today!_" she hissed, a kunai flashed into her hand.

Someone caught her wrist. "Mitarashi!"

The woman spun around to face her commander, who threw her arm back down. His eyes were calmer, wiser, face solemn, the droplets of water dripping across his scars and down the edges of his hair. In contrast, hers were wild, darkened with dark charcoal, torn flesh, and trekked with rain streaks of dirt and blood.

"Now is not the time to be turning against comrades."

"Are you fucking kidding," she demanded, giving the man on the ground a good muddied stomp to the stomach. "Eight of our bases just blew up into smithereens within the past three months, the first, coincidentally enough, _after. he. joined_."

The man felt an especially sharp attack to his kidneys on the last punctuation.

"That is a very heavy accusation, Mitarashi."

"I saw the attacker. He was from the STATE!" she yelled.

The entire camp stiffened, some subconsciously huddled closer towards each other, while others distanced away.

"Who was it," the commander finally questioned.

"ANBU. _Root_."

"How many?"

"It was a blur. I only saw one, but no one can mistaken a Root. He escaped before my snakes could seize him."

There was an exchange of looks, weary, fearful. There was only one man from the State who joined right before the attacks started, each so precise and in sequence that it couldn't have been an accident. And currently, he did look very suspect, an unrepentant ANBU of Konoha, regardless of the acts of loyalty he had shown. Everyone became good liars in times of war.

But then, there was a cry.

"It wasn't him!" The boy clutched tightly onto the flask. He was the most unsettled of the group, the red stings still in his eyes and the quiver on his lip.

"What do you know."

"He saved me!"

"Cute trick, save the weakest link to look innocent," she spat.

"_It wasn't him_!" the boy repeated desperately.

"It wasn't me."

For the first time in a while, the man spoke. He stared back directly into the eyes of the woman, weary and defeated as the rest of them, but still with enough strength and conviction to clear his name. He didn't even blink as the rain from her hair, stained brown and red, dripped into his eyes.

She nearly flinched; he didn't.

"Then who," she listlessly demanded everyone and no one, as she removed her foot off him. "Whose revenge is this?"

If only they knew. Betrayal was expected, how they functioned all those years without a single one was a miracle that defied everything the commander knew about the human nature, military strategy, and the game itself. He pocketed his hands, stared at the rain crashing down from the heavens.

For some reason, this betrayal didn't feel so much like call for revenge, than a cry for mercy.

Two days later, a message flew in from the wind. The first base of the Akatsuki had just been bombed. Maybe a coincidence, but Akatsuki could draw their own conclusions when an activated weapon from their allying party showed up on their doorstep.

* * *

"You lied to me, brother."

The echo was a sentencing. A snake had managed to slither in, through the basins and up around the architecture of a pillar to enjoy the performance. The surface of the water rippled between orange of the flames and the sharp whites and blues of electricity.

"He wasn't there."

A single strike was enough to send Itachi to the floor, a lash of a whip that disintegrated into crackles of static. He curled in, desperately cross his arms across his abdomen tighter. He braced himself for the second strike, the third, forth, until he looked like a vandalized painting, a crisscross of torn canvas. A teetered pattern weaved down his arms, his nails digging into his own flesh until his knuckles were white and his fingertips found blood.

"You know where he is," Sasuke murmured sweetly into his brother's ear, his fingers weaving into his hair. "Because of him, you are hurting yourself." A harsh yank, as he dragged his brother across the floor. "Because of him, you are dirtying yourself."

Itachi fell to his knees before the bed. Sasuke rested on the edge, cupping his brother's cheek, staring at him with a fondness that matched his honeyed tone. Threatening, mocking, poisoned. "Again. Tell me_ where he is_."

The response was shaken, barely audible.

"You... c-cannot capture him."

Sasuke merely grinned, rubbed his thumb over his brother's quivering lip. No useful words ever escaped out of his brother's mouth, but that didn't mean it could not be used.

Itachi's eyelids fluttered close when he felt his brother's arousal press against his lips. He was sick, nauseated, a virus in the stomach that had nothing to do with the rips in his flesh nor the jolts down his nerves. But that did little to stop him from taking his brother into his mouth, nor did he retract when Sasuke dug his hand into his hair and scalp again, and slammed himself deep down his throat.

Sasuke could feel him choking, gagging, suffocating with each thrust, he could feel the sob that ripped out and vibrated, and it encouraged him to go harsher and deeper until the last of his brother's voice was gone. There was no need for Itachi to speak; all that mattered was that he remained obedient, swallowed every last drop of release, allowed his clothes to be taken away, his body to be taken away.

Long after footsteps up the stairwells had dimmed to echoes, the snake finally moved. It submerged itself into a basin of red, where dirtied fingertips barely dipped in over the edge, then slithered around the unconscious body on the stone floor, buried in the dips and folds of the collection of stained fabrics.

It stopped before an unrolled parchment less than a foot away.

It was a map, stained and streaked with blood where trembling fingers once touched. In the highest concentrations of red marked the locations of the ninth base of the Underground Resistance, and an inner lair of the Akatsuki.


	14. XIII

Nightfall had hit the skylines of the city of Ame. The pitter-patters against the windows was light but incessant. A booming thunder rumbled, and lightning tossed the entire room into flashes of shadow and light. It illuminated two figures in the expanse of the upper chambers of the city's government tower.

"These times make trust difficult. Your organization is the primary suspect of the attacks. Cooperation may become difficult."

The leader of the Underground Resistance gave a wry grin. "It is also no secret amongst my followers that our hideouts have been revealed to the Akatsuki right before the bombings of _our _bases. The suspicion is mutual, Pein."

"This is our fault. When the signal of the Vermillion faded, we faultily assumed his death. We will take responsibility for the betrayal of Uchiha Itachi."

Pein kept an impassive expression when the lightning stuck again, seated upon his armchair like a marble statue of a mighty deity upon a throne. His voice was no different: of polished stone, unfeeling, authoritative, eloquent, absolute. He was firm, unmoving, rectangular, the complete opposite of the teenager in the guest seat.

Naruto rested sideways in his seat, slouched, one leg kicked up. While a set of ringed eyes monitored him, piercing and direct, he did not even face his company, only stared at the swiveling three pronged kunai looped around his finger.

"Hm, by all technicalities," he said, "Itachi belongs to me. My responsibility, my fault."

"Forgive us. He is a disgrace to the name of our organization. We would not like the Resistance to hold our organization as dishonest, and will compensate for your lost sharingan at all costs. We will also remove the State perpetrators responsible for the attacks."

"Don't waste your troops. One will be extremely annoying to bring down, and he'll cost you a hell lot more than he's worth. It's better to run than confront him... for now."

The kunai stopped spinning, caught in a firm grip. A pair of blue eyes stared intensely, he silent in contemplation. The timing was not right; winter was a time of stagnancy. Only in the height of spring can the wind gather all the momentum it needs, circle the entire continent ocean to ocean to prepare and organize. He had learned to look ahead, follow the necessity.

Pein, on the other hand, remained adamant in his judgments. "This person brought down Itachi-san." It was a statement that contained not a hint of doubt. "He is a danger to be rid of quickly before there are more casualties."

Naruto tilted his head towards his converser. "Is that a manifesto I hear? Is it smart to leave your city when it's under constant invasion?"

"This city has its rooks and bishops. Most importantly, it has its queen. It will not take me long to remove of one State soldier."

And in the sharp flashes of god's wrath, rings upon rings vibrate brilliantly to life, the samara of life and death, the threshold between the land of suffering and the river of nirvana. As Naruto stared into those eyes, he knew that, without a doubt, even the most sinister will fall in the hands of divine intervention.

He leaned his head back and chuckled darkly. Tempting, very tempting. But reliance on the power of a deity, to be in the debt and favor of one, never bode well with him. He was finely capable of exorcising his own demons. And this particular one he had a personal vendetta against, a boiling craving for revenge from both him and the pacing beast inside him.

The black reflection of the kunai stared back at him, brought back a different set of eyes, the eyes of the conquered, the eyes of one who succumbed to a new order of control. Itachi entered his mind once more, had been plaguing him for too many precious seconds, hours, days. But what could he do. There can be no salvation to those who do not want it, and he could not unbind a man who fortifies his own chains.

_My fault, my responsibility_. And none of this would have happened had Naruto not committed potentially the most fatal mistake of his military career: to give his most powerful ally to his most dangerous foe.

Only now did he understand how he was wrong to have made the offer he made, the real one underneath the ink of the parchment, the words that were soaked in optimism. How he should have kept the bird in his hand, instead of wagering more than he was prepared to lose. How he should have divulged nothing to Itachi in that tavern, bargained with Pein and Pein alone, because what were people but commodities to be traded, what was Itachi worth but a set of body parts, all garbage except for those eyes. Those coveted eyes, the greatest obstacle and greatest weapon, the final key that provided the ultimate control over the ultimate power.

Why had he not taken them right then and there. Why did he have to covet the owner of them, feel obligated by a debt, and rise his bowl in a gesture of good will because _contrary to what your leader believes, I do not plan to take from you, Itachi. But I do ask you to help me take from the State. _

_This is a secret; there is one last pair, still in its original owner, hidden in the shadows of Root. I cannot take him down; his sharingan has too much control over my chakra. But you, your own mastery of the sharingan is legendary. He cannot win against you, especially not with the backup of the kyuubi on your side. _

_In exchange for lending me your strength, I'll break you out of your contract with Akatsuki. My followers will lead you out of the continent, find you a safe refuge. Our connections are extensive; we'll assist you with your search for whomever you are seeking. Never will you have to touch another weapon again. Never will you have to think about this war ever again. Just one more fight, Itachi, and you're done... just help me get that last pair of bloody eyes._

He had smirked victoriously when his companion broke out of his surprise and whispered his reply, eyes tainted with the most unidentifiable of emotions. At the time, it appeared to have been something good, a type of off-white hope or joy that was discolored by something bittersweet. It appeared relieving, as if the first mercy after a series of tribulations. It appeared to have been true, sincere gratitude, the type people often forget to pay to the deities after their prayers have been fulfilled.

_Thank you, Naruto-kun._

Naruto straightened, both his feet finding solid ground, as he tucked away his kunai and stood up in the billow of a cloak. Looking back on it, Itachi never did say yes. When he had offered his deal, the possibility escaped his mind, because he neglected a bond so thin, it was invisible, but so strong, it would never sever.

"Invest your time in other things, Pein," Naruto stated. "Gods do not trouble themselves with the dilemmas of mortals."

By the next flash of lightning, he was gone.

Instead, a finely chiseled sculpture stood in his place, a stone angel beaten with layers of acid rain, expression as sunken and weathered as the city.

"Pein-sama, the eastern border is secure," she reported, her wings folding within itself, scale after scale of glistening cellulose.

"What else." Because time did not stop, and the world had to continue.

"Kusa has surrendered to the eighth State division. The Compromise has gained the approval of the five daimyo and the Emperor. Suna has agreed to cooperate with Akatsuki by extension of the Resistance. And finally..."

Konan lifted her gaze, the last pieces of origami pasting in place. The edifice of a divine messenger was gone. What remained were the breakable skin of a mortal woman, heavy with worry and melancholia and anxiety that her own story will not end in grace. The sense of danger, and the unease within intuition made her next lines difficult to deliver. "I am sent to ask of God's judgment on the request of the Underground Resistance. If He approves, we will dispatch immediately."

The man she was asking was a mere statue, a material object planted on the earth for the sake of communication with the heavens. His expressions would betray nothing, his voice would betray nothing, because he was not alive.

"It fulfills our final objective. Approved."

It didn't matter if the gamble was unfavorable, defiant of natural laws, would end in disaster. It didn't matter if Konan already knew this would mark the fall of her religion and she would soon become the last discipline. There was only finality and fate.

Konan bowed and retreated. With the spread of wings, the angel returned, really to follow His will.

* * *

Click. Bang. Bang. _Bang_.

Three silvery bullets were tossed in the air, caught in the sweep of a pistol. Lock, backflip, propel, aim, fire. A pair of cloth shoes made soft contact with the sand, a small puff of disturbance, while the metal casings fell harmlessly nearby. Both pairs of pistols swiveled, then tucked back under a belt.

Several meters ahead, the patrol guards and Relations General removed themselves from the limp restraints of their enemies, examined the small bullet hole directly in between the eyes of each ambusher.

A gust of wind blew and temporarily blinded their view of the travelers. For several seconds, there was only noise, the howl of the winds, the scratchy flips and flips of heavy fabric, the creak of the gates and the hanging metal plaque of the Suna symbol. Then, the sand settled, and eyes squinted to find the silhouettes of foreigners, camels and wagons and all.

In the front was a small figure in a coarsely-threaded brown traveler's clock, hood down. Behind, a slouched hunchback creature of sorts, planked on both sides by four wheeled wooden wagons, thick canvas pulled tightly over the arched frameworks to obscure the contents inside the view. Their movements never ceased, approaching the gate at the same pace.

"Stop." The command of the Relations General was loud and clear, but the patrol guards were nonetheless surprised when the travelers obeyed.

The camels yielded almost instantly, the large wheels churned one last time before they sunk into the sand.

"Identification."

Slowly, the figure up front withdrew a three pronged kunai from her cloak. "Tenten. U.R. Division Eleven."

"Purpose."

"The intentional reallocation of resources in the economic and political interest of the most optimal range efficiency." Tenten lowered her hood, placed her weight on a hip in a sassy manner. "In other words, you want your damn guns or not?"

Instantly, the wagon was crowded with shinobi, who unloaded crates upon crates. A rusted crowbar propped one open to reveal stacks upon stacks of newly engineered firearms, high caliber pistols and revolvers. The smell of greased metal and factory fumes were still fresh.

The General was the first to boldly reach and load a .38 derringer. Without a word, she fired two rounds at the U.R. member.

Bullet was met with bullet, sending both rocketing in unpredictable and hazardous directions. The group of shinobi ducked their heads. One bullet directly whizzed towards one shinobi, grazed past his chest and cracked a rib in the process. One fell short of fatally injuring a camel with a piece through the stomach. The others went out of range, or splintered the wood of the wagon.

"This contraption is out of control," the General stated coldly, tossing the gun into the sand. "Accuracy off by at least .32. We will not accept something this weak."

"Weak! You call this weak, hmm!" The voice came from the distance. It was followed by echoes of fired shots. Seconds later, everyone felt the projectiles, as the sand around them exploded in violent bursts. The gate of the military village of Suna met its unfortunate fate, and not all the people below evaluated in time.

From above, the flap of a wing, as a clay owl suddenly descended. It's master unhooked himself from the seat, his high laced military boots making a giant thud in the sand. Under this signature cloak were heavy belted coats, strapped leathers of grenades upon grenades, and multifarious veins and arteries in the form of red and blue wires . He also favored himself with the highest technology of the days, equipped with a digital analyzer eyepiece, twin long ranged radio receivers, and a 55 canon rifle.

He gave his owl a solid pat and laughed.

"And it goes with a BANG!" He punctuated with a shake and click of his rifle.

"Weak is indeed the wrong word," Tenten chuckled, closing her eyes. "We realized our last shipment did not come full instructions. This time, we will personally demonstrate the _true_ potential of these weapons."

"True potential?" the General warily questioned.

"Temari-gozen, we would not waste your time otherwise." The rasps of the third and final party member suddenly tensed the atmosphere, as cord upon cord of bones retracted out, the fine tip of a tail that unlatched itself and revealed an open barrel to the skies.

"This idiot here has shown you what happens when you replace the loading material with explosive clay instead of metal bullets," Tenten informed, nodding towards the Akatsuki by the owl. "Why don't we now demonstrate what happens when you also utilize a minuscule drop of _chakra._"

The trigger was pulled. From the Suna village, a loud explosion could be heard. Homes rattled and sunk, while a million little beads of missiles collided against each other in the sky, creating clashes of fireworks and choking smoke.

The tail retracted. "How about a poison needle missile next?"

"Better yet, a C2 BOMB, yeah!"

Shortly after, the crates were plundered, and the treaties were signed. To exact their current revenge, Suna was willing to acknowledge the worst renegades, the shames and disasters in their history, the abomination who murdered and defiled the flesh of their most treasured heroes and saints. It didn't matter; they would deal with the repercussions of justice when their village survives its apocalypse. First, the State must go down.

Wars could create the most unlikely alliances.

* * *

_Nii-san..._

The voice echoed through the corridors, the ghost of a hand touching the coarse masonry walls. The fires burned silently.

_Nii-san..._

The soft sound of feet padded against the hard floors, first against stone, then only refined wood.

_Nii-san, where are you?_

Itachi clutched tighter onto the fabrics wrapped around him. His breathing was becoming shallow, his toes and fingers were beginning to blacken. The sharp pangs of his heart in an empty rib cage, the venomous taste of blood climbing up his throat, the heaviness in his chest. Analgesics failed to keep pain at bay, made him feel even more sick, as he kept suppressing and suppressing, damming higher and higher. But he was cracked, and it wasn't long before he couldn't swallow any more.

He couldn't but he had to anyway, as the calls were closer and closer, and it wasn't long before there was the sound of a splash in the basins of water and a trail of wet footprints across the floors. _Nii-san_! And the cry was joyous, and little fingers that reached up to him were harmless, and playful, and daring, and violent as they clawed deeply into his flesh and- _scream for me_.

Even as the mind saw clear, light laughs, a small child who jumped on the bed to hug his brother, he only heard dark chuckles and mockery, his body only remembered the drags of fingernails across his back, the jerks of his hair. Itachi snapped shut his eyes, his fingers clenched tighter, the definition of veins and bones sharpening around his knuckles and the back of his hands.

_Nii-san, why do you keep ignoring me... _The way the lips moved silently then dipped down into a pouting frown. The child didn't hide his disappointment, as his hug loosened, the talons tearing apart his back retracting, replaced by a hiss against his ear.

_I'm scared, nii-san. Stop treating me like I don't exist. You promised, nii-san, you promised to me no matter what you won't forget me. _The confession was open and free, restrained by nothing but a small, naïve barrier of pride, pride to appear strong and worthy before the perfect older brother. And it finished with a quiver of the lower lip, the mark of uncertainty, as tiny hands shyly took hold of his brother's in a comforting hold.

Then forcibly pinned them down to the bed. _Serve me well, dear nii-san. _

Itachi's muscles still retrained the memory of when and how they tightened and loosened, held itself in the positions and angles that dirtied himself the worst, because the perfect older brother was so, so smart, smart enough to figure out how to best please his rapist after the first night, and if he was to be used for pleasure, he might as well fulfill his function to the best of his ability.

Even when he wanted to die.

Pretend that sex could kill.

That being fucked to death would mark the end of his penance, remove the grief in the form of a forehead pressed against his chest and a choking, desperate cry of _please don't go, please don't leave me, nii-san_, the same exact things which prevented him from doing just that.

Itachi lifted an unstable hand and understood he lost the warm embrace, the face buried against him, body curled up against his. He would never feel them again, the memory gone, just like how the chiming voice slowly faded into the echoes. But as long as he still saw, he would reach for warmth, extend for comfort. He cradled the both of them with arms that shivered worse than the eldest of bones, unable to straighten nor control, stricken with arthritis. The protection they provide was little, but they will nonetheless try, lock in guard, protect a delusion.

He will stay to serve his master with every strained breath, every convulsion.

The child closed his eyes at the gestures and smiled warmly. The church chants rang from above, a replacement for the whistling of the trees and the choir of the birds.

Agony is the paroxysm of joy.


End file.
